


Held Together By A Thread

by DarkChocolateCheesecake



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: All main assassins will be included, Anal Play, Blood, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent Fantasy, F/M, Femdom, Hand Jobs, Knifeplay, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence, You know eventually, light dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7855366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkChocolateCheesecake/pseuds/DarkChocolateCheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of scenarios and situations in which the reader finds herself caught up in the robes of certain Assassins for reasons both sensible and otherwise.</p><p>It's all smut. Pure smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arno Dorian x Reader

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a writing experiment for me to play around with other styles and thought processes. Just a fair warning that inconsistency from story to story may lie ahead!
> 
> Otherwise, please do enjoy yourselves and feel free to make requests or suggestions at my Tumblr - [darkchocolatepleasecake.tumblr.com](https://darkchocolatepleasecake.tumblr.com/)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arno has his own secrets he's been keeping. Kept secrets and broken promises.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Mostly fluffy smut, a bit of angst.

A cold serving dish full of food. A moonlit balcony closed off and silent. And freshly extinguished candles still smoking their displeasure. All telltale signs of an evening of being left alone after the promise of company.

Knowing how important and time-consuming his profession is does a little to ease the pain, but only somewhat. Tonight was supposed to be different. _Special._ It was supposed to mean something to someone other than you for once. And that certain someone is, yet again, not present. Hours of preparation and hope find their rest in the kitchen trash bin — food and candles and, if it could fit, the moon, too, would be in there. But it sits loftily in the sky in all its impartial splendor.

You close the curtains to the terrace and lock the door — disappointed as you are, you will not lose sleep over him _again_. That’s easier said than done as you spend the night drifting ina nd out of slumber with that same disappointing stinging at your tear ducts. He’ll be there in the morning as usual, letting himself in through the balcony no matter how securely you lock it. Waiting for you by the bed until you drowsily stir from sleep. And then the disenchanting dance begins all over again.

Another bouquet from the market. Another heartfelt apology. Another soft-spoken promise. Another delayed heartbreak. One day you’ll learn better.

The next morning, though, you rise with the sun and find yourself alone. Completely.

Feelings of regret and anger shift into dismay and anxiety. He’s _always_ here the next morning. If something has happened… if something has kept him away… The pads of your feet hit the icy floor as your mind begins to flutter with plans, with possibilities of where he is or what may have happened. Anything could have happened to him — being arrested; caught out by a clever thief; or even — your throat nearly collapses at the thought — falling to his death in one of those crazed acrobatic stunts he’s always doing.

And that’s when you see it. The item that both relieves your worry and rekindles your rage, and it slows your panicked heartbeats only to jumpstart it with a fury. Your so-called love has been here. And he’s been so kind to leave a single note and a single flower. Both items find themselves in the trash before you even glance them over.

Now you’re not even good enough for an audience with him? Over the past few weeks you’d be lucky to have him for an hour or two a day. And even that time is spread out haphazardly between daylight and moonlight. And now… now there’s only a note and a half-wilted weed of a flower. That’s all he can spare? All he cares to give? After how long you’ve been together and how patient you’ve been?!

Stubbornness and willpower are no match for your curiosity, though. After a few minutes of pacing vexation you delicately retrieve the discarded letter.

 

> _Late nights working call me away. I_ _’m sorry, my love. I_ _ will _ _make this up to you. Please wait for me._
> 
> _\- Arno_

A disbelieving scoff leaves your chest empty, and you crumble the note and return it to the refuse bin. _No._ Not again. You won’t be sitting around waiting for him like a housewife waiting for her husband to return from war. For most of the morning, though, you’re pacing your bedroom in a manner not dissimilar from a worried wife. But unlike other spouses unable to do anything to intervene, you’re not completely bound from taking action.

A few steps later and you’re standing in front of your dresser bureau, staring at the reflection of yourself that seems to question if you’re _really_ about to do what you’re planning on doing. You close your eyes and dismiss the mirror-faced doubt from your mind. The drawers slide open and your plan takes its first flight.

-✩-

Early on in your relationship with Arno, something ever-so-faintly had been _off._ The late nights, the wounds on his body from time to time, the way he was so secretive about his activities that took up so much of his day. Things progressed somewhat bumpily and it was only after a particularly heated night of confrontation that he confessed he was a part of this group of phantoms you’d heard about taking such wild liberties within France. He mentioned only that his work was important and that revealing any further details would put you in danger.

A sensible woman would have released him then and there. But your stubborn streak has never quite granted you the title of _sensible_. Before the trend of long days and nights spent alone, you two were inseparable. Before his so-called “profession” consumed him, you were able to be certain of your future together. But now, as you make your way through town, intent and disguised in the very robes he leaves in your home, you’re not quite sure what the future of that same day will bring.

And that’s how you find yourself outside of the building you’ve seen Arno occupy so frequently — this _Cafe Theatre_. If anyone knows where he is or what he’s up to, surely someone here would. You’ve seen him come here before, hooded and dressed leaping away from your balcony to the rooftops in the city. You’ve seen him joining with others dressed similarly, you’ve heard the rumors of the dangers of these hooded individuals day or night. Something is amiss and you intend to find out what is going on.

The building itself is quiet and casual enough as people carry on soft conversation during the mid-morning. A trace of movement in the corner of your vision confirms your suspicions, though — another hooded figure is quietly making their way down a side hall. Soft footsteps eventually carry to that same direction with no one taking note of your movement. But turning the corner shows the person you are pursuing is gone.

A quick glance shows a dimly lit staircase leading down to a… cellar, perhaps? You swallow your courage and approach, taking light steps in the same boots Arno has used so many times. Each step reveals more and more candlelight until the entirety of the chamber comes into view. Grandly decorated with cool air that fills your lungs; shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls; tables and chairs piled high with items; even a few curtained-off side rooms for additional, more private studies.

And then you see him.

Seated at the main table in the center of the room and peering over a table full of books and maps with candles blazing to provide enough light in the subterranean room. He doesn’t seem to notice you as you pass by, but there’s bags under his eyes from what you can only assume is one-too-many sleepless nights, and your heart crumbles at seeing him this way. He’s fully absorbed in his work and looks a mix of focused and distressed with his foot tapping absentmindedly as he pores over written word for answers.

Slow and careful footsteps eventually carry you to an armchair placed to the side of the room across from where Arno is seated. Still he doesn’t look up, doesn’t seem to notice you, and that’s fine. You carefully choose a book from a bookcase nearby, sit down, and thumb open your written selection. It’s several minutes later after you’ve gotten comfortable, after you’ve been staring Arno down between the vision allotted from your lowered hood and the rim of the book, that Arno stirrs.

He curses, slamming his current book shut and tossing it behind him with an inglorious flop. He lays his head on the table after, lacing his hands together behind his neck and remaining still, muttering and grumbling. The action is over soon after it starts and he sits up, inhales a deep breath. And then, eyes glinting in the candlelight, he seems to notice you. His face contorts — you can only hope it’s from embarrassment at having his outburst being witnessed instead of recognition of his clothes on another’s body.

“Did you need any assistance, Brother?” He clears his throat after asking, looking at you as he rubs tired aches from his neck. With your hood lowered, he’s yet to see your face, and from the way he angles his body toward the exit it does not seem he has any intention to investigate. You shake your head in reply to his question and he shrugs, standing. “Ah, then good luck with your reading —”

He stops mid-sentence, body stiff with his hand on a book that slips just slightly in his grip. Perhaps the gears in his head are beginning to turn with suspicions becoming too noticeable to ignore. What you can see of his lower half with your head bent at this angle shows him moving — moving toward you. “My apologies, Brother, have we not yet met? I’m Arno. And you are?”

You shake your head again. And immediately hear the book hit the ground. Arno has always been a clever man and the way he’s carefully considering you now… you’re not sure if it’s because of his allegiance to his group of phantoms or because he is truly unsure if there is an intruder in his midst. He steps closer, hand clenching at his side. “Rather impolite not to give your name… _Brother_.”

And once more. You shake your hooded head.

“ _Imposteur!_ _R_ _évèle-toi!_ ” He hisses out the accusation under his breath, angling his head to get a better look at you even with you turning away. Left then right then back again before he uses a hand to rip the hood down, exposing your face to the cool underground air. His eyes widen at the confirmation and he immediately, almost comically, puts your hood back in place to hide your cross expression. He turns, staring around the clubroom to ensure the both of you are alone before he whirls back, gritting his question through his teeth. “ _What are you doing here?!_ ”

“Well, _my love_ , since you could not find time for me no matter how many times I request it, I have come to see what keeps you away.” The words cut him down visibly: the furrow of his brow loosens, his jaw unclenches, and tense hands go slack.

He exhales a cooling breath, staring down at the book in your lap before glancing toward you. Thick silence coats the space between you as you both stare on. Eventually, he breaks it. “My love, my little _infiltrator,_ I meant what I said. I will make this up to you if you’d only wai—”

“I will not,” you interrupt calmly.

He stiffens at that, blinking out his attempt at understanding what you mean. You clarify with cold impartiality.

“You’ve asked it before and you are asking it again. I’m saying this now — _I will not wait._ ”

The tension in his body returns. “Do I mean so little to you that you would not do as I ask? That you would come here and put yourself in danger after my warnings?”

“Your _Brothers_ are so precious to you that you would allow me to wither and die in their shadow? You would so selfishly use your time _and_ mine for the company of your _Brothers?_ ” The last word is practically venomous. He bites his lip hard but doesn’t break eye contact. Your hastily whispered ire bubbles back down before it boils over.

“I came to tell you that I will not wait endlessly for you, Arno. But I’ll not ask you to choose between me or your Brothers, either.” He takes a step back at your words, at the possibility that something like that could even be an option. You stand and move to set the borrowed book back on its shelf. “The way things are now, Arno, I… I can’t last this way. I’m here to show you that.”

He follows as you place the book in its proper spot, looking over his shoulder for any possible interruptions. With none present, he grasps your hand, leading you away from the main room and into a side study, pulling on ropes to make heavy parting curtains close. The room is small, cozily darkened with only a few candles present. And in the dim light, he turns to you, an unreadable expression on his face.

He swallows hard. “And if I change the way things are between us? If I give you what you need?”

You could practically draw the pleading look on his face now from the number of times you’ve seen it. And you scoff softly, not to be insulting, but from the notion that he would be willing to change any part of himself for you. It would be nice, perfect if he could spend just a _little_ more time with you, but… “I can’t take you for your words alone anymore, Arno. I know you believe you will follow through, but it… every broken promise hurts and I —”

“But I’ve broken you… haven’t I?” He searches your face in soft light for an answer, for _the_ answer. And as kind as sweet as he is, you try to hide your thoughts, something to keep the pain from him. But the realization on his face says it all. “How much of a fool have I been to chase you away by leaving you alone?”

Tremendous. Gargantuan. A complete and utter fool of elephantine proportions.

You caress a hand down his shoulder to his forearm. His hand begins the automatic motion of reaching out to cup your cheek, but stops and retracts. The pained look on his face is almost too much to stomach. “Arno, please. I’m — this was thoughtless of me to bother you here. I was just so… so _angry._ I’m sorry. I should let you go about your business.”

“No,” he gasps the word out as you pass. Before your hand can reach the closed curtain, his arm whips out to encircle your waist, pulling you in close with the warmth of his face buried in the crook of your neck from behind. The embrace is loose at first, but gradually tightens, as though he would be seeing you for the last time should you walk away. “No, no, no please. _Please,_ stay.”

The foolishness of the act aside, you hadn’t expected Arno to begin breaking down with only you and shelves of books to bear witness. He lowers his head and the faint feel of moisture at your neck confirms your fears and your stomach twists — tears, just a few of them, smeared between his skin and yours. He softly sobs the word again: _stay._

You turn in his arms to face him, seeing the tremble of his lip and the welling of his eyes staining his cheeks with sorrow, with regret. “Arno, dear…” Soft fingertips run across the wetness of his cheeks, clearing the traces of emotion on the face of one who is supposed to be trained to conceal, to hide away his feelings when inappropriate. Coming here to cause him grief and pain wasn’t what you were intending and now with him coming apart in your arms, you would give almost anything to ease his pain. “ I… this isn’t the end of us, Arno.”

It’s hard to voice exactly how you feel without giving false hope. It may not exactly be the end of your relationship, but for how much longer it can go on you’re not sure. Arno, on the other hand, looks to be reluctant to consider anything outside the moment, _this_ moment. His grip around your waist is still iron-tight and burgeoning on painful. Before you can voice quiet protest, he moves several careful steps backward, pulling you with him in stumbling steps.

“Arno, what—what are you doing?” You ask as he walks you back until he turns and presses you against a corner of cool stone in the underground clubroom. He clouds your vision in shadowy unison with your hood, the flickering dance of candlelight just barely visible past his shoulders. And as he raises his arms to brace himself against the corner to press himself against you, your vision is full of him and only him.

“I’m following through on my promise.” He states simply, kissing the bridge of your nose, before dropping to his knees in front of you.

Candlelight swims back into vision as your cheeks flush bright crimson. You tense up as his arms begin to fumble with the familiar buckles and and ties of his clothes. This is an awful idea, perhaps the worst he’s had. But despite the clear danger, your blood is singing with need. In the past few months what scant time you two have been able to spend together, there has hardly been time to be intimate past heavy petting. Earlier in your relationship there had been plenty of sleepless, pleasured nights. But as time dragged on, as Arno became more and more involved in his activities, there was less and less time for you.

Before you can consider just how _long_ it’s been since the two have you have had this sort of fun, he has your pants and undergarments at your ankles, revealing the prize he’s seeking. You steady your breath and place a hand on his shoulder to catch his gaze. You shake your head at him once in the silent underground study — bad idea, this is a _very_ bad idea especially if he expects his Brothers to come and go as they please in these halls.

He nods his understanding and instead of moving to redress you, he slides a silencing finger to his lips. And that naughty smile behind his finger confirms it. He won’t be stopping and _you_ _’ll_ need to be quiet to keep from being caught.

He glides your leg over his shoulder and kneels closer to the place where your thighs meet, using his free hand to spread you wide and taste your eagerness for him. You hiccup down a moan and clasp your hands over your mouth, teetering on one leg for balance. His other hand gently strokes your thigh, spreading warmth across your skin as his fingers knead gentle motions.

“I’ve been awful to you, I know, and I can’t take it back.” He says between mouthfuls of air, diving down again to wrap his lips around your hooded clit, undulating his tongue against it to reveal the sensitive bud as his fingers rub gently teasing circles at your opening. Once the muscles in your leg begin to tremble from the pleasure and strain of balancing your weight, he purrs out a soft kiss and stands. He releases your leg and you’re grateful for it, but his hand stays between your thighs, delving two fingers in as deep as they can. “But I need you in my life. I’ve been a fool to mistreat you this way, and I can’t let you go without trying once more to keep you.”

You swallow your moans again as he leans in with an arm pressed against the stone over your head, trying to steady your wavering voice to a whisper as he kisses the corners of your mouth, spreading the taste and smell of yourself there until you tilt your head up to accept him. Soft and skillfully teasing tongue, nibbling teeth, and warm lips. He doesn’t let up until you’re kisses breathless and faintly dizzy, clinging to his lapels to steady yourself. “Arno, please, you don’t have to be so — _god,_ we shouldn’t do this, not _here!_ ”

Both of you stiffen up when you hear it — footfalls coming down the stone steps. _Multiple footfalls._

Your grip on his jacket tightens and you glance to him, worried and quietly frantic that getting caught would endanger both of you. He simply smiles, removing his slick fingers from your pussy and brings them to your lips, wordless and hazy-eyed with lust. You shake your head, furrowing your brows and jutting your chin in the direction footsteps and voices are coming. This _isn_ _’t_ the time to be naughty!

He rolls his shoulders in a shrug and takes his wet fingers into his mouth, licking and sucking both digits clean. The sight of him showing you his technique of wrapping and swirling his tongue provides an incredible visual stimulation to what had _just_ been happening between your legs. Briefly, that hand disappears to begin to unfasten his own pants, the soft cloth falls away and rumples on the floor.

The sound doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Is that you, Arno?” A deep voice calls out from the other side of the curtain alongside the sound of shuffling papers and books. “I see you’ve been cooped up in here, again. You should try to get fresh air some time.”

The man in front of you gives a soft throaty laugh, eyes pinned on you as he strokes his cock and guides your leg up and around his waist. “Yes, Brother,  eventually. But for the moment I’m trying to nurse this tremendous headache. Give me some peace, won’t you?”

“Of course, Arno, of course. Just gathering some supplies.” There’s some chuckles and sounds of clinking metal and retreating footsteps from the other side. A different voice, lighter and younger sounding calls out. “Say hello to that pretty thing of yours for us, won’t you?” And rumbling laughter from several men echoes in the chamber as they ascend the stairs and leave. Seems your stealthy infiltration was not as stealthy as you thought.

Arno’s lip twists to the side and his eyes roll.

“ _Merde,_ I shouldn’t have expected that to last for long.” Arno breathes the words softly against the skin of your neck as he pulls you closer and pushes his hips forward, gently gliding within you until you gasp out from the sensation. He begins thrusting shallowly, holding your leg at the underside of your knee against him. And again you’re balancing on one foot as you’re spread wide and pleasured.

“How…” You swallow a groan when his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot. “How did they know?” You barely get out the words before he angles himself to hit the tender part inside you that has you gripping him close and clenching around his cock. While not truly caught and certainly not exposed, it seems as though Arno’s company was fully aware of your presence. Your lover treats the discovery more as a nuisance than a threat and kisses his way up your chin, capturing your mouth before answering.

“I can’t say I’m surprised — you’ll learn we have eyes and ears everywhere in time, my love.” He groans against you, snapping his hips a bit harder as his breathing becomes more and more shallow. He presses his forehead against yours, staring lovingly to witness every whimpering moan silenced by clenched teeth and trembling lips. “Keeping a secret here is difficult — especially one as sumptuous as you.”

He shifts his arms under your rear, lifting you off the ground to fill you fully with his cock. You grip him tightly with your arms about his shoulders and your legs clinging to his waist, needing completion just as much as he does. And he thrusts hungrily into your warmth, catching your body between cold stone and hot flesh. Your nails rake across the fabric of his jacket, trying to pull his body even closer as your vision swirls and legs tremble. The clenching of your muscles around him draws a shuddering groan from him as his hands clench the soft flesh of your rear.

“Your compliments… ngh, will only get you s-so far!” He angles you by your rear to a deliciously frictional angle with the base of his cock rubbing against your clit with every bottoming out thrust. You groan his name, feeling yourself becoming unsteady in his arms, pleading your release and pleasure and more. More of him, more of his warmth and thickness grinding inside of you. More of every bit of him you’ve come to miss after all this time.

“Of course, my love.” He says as he plants soft, adoring kisses across your face. He continues coating you with kissing affection after the two of you come undone, tangled in each other and breathing out relief; and he kisses you as he redresses both your bodies, being sure to tuck your undergarments tight against your dripping sex; and again he’s still kissing you as he pulls you to sit with him in the lazy comfort of an armchair.

Even as the passion of the moment fades and you both regain steady breath, there’s an unpleasant feeling among the promise of recovery and change: **doubt**. It sticks ever closely to your heart, pulsing even as your beloved settles you against his lap, arms about your waist with no intention of letting you go. Tension aside, you allow yourself to lean back against his chest and the smile pressed into your shoulder offers some reassurance to clear the thick webs of uncertainty.

And the burst of a memory all but burns them away.

“…wait a moment.” You turn yourself to the side on his lap, tucking yourself into his fondly massaging hands as you rest your legs over the side of the armchair. “Arno, you said earlier that I’ll _‘learn you have eyes and ears everywhere’?_ ”

He nods. “That is what I said, my sweet. And I meant it —  you’ve a lot to learn about Assassins.”

The instant you raise your head to meet his gaze, to see if his words are genuine, he kisses the tip of your nose and kneads his hands gently along your lower back, looking entirely calm about his admission. His claim to being an _Assassin._ At most, you were thinking that he may belong to a ring of smugglers or thieves, but here he is taking your surprise a step further. Why steal or conduct illegal import and export when you can simply murder those in power?

“You want me at your side? So be it.” He notes your somewhat slack-jawed look and helps you close it with a single upward press of his index finger. “You will have me, but you will also be at my side. Here. In these halls.” He tucks your head against his chest and rests his chin in your hair, inhaling deeply and giving your body another firm, warm hug.


	2. Edward Kenway x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward is a man living a sad tale. He'll take his happiness where he can get it. It's all you can do to try to take some, too.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Anal play, deepthroat, and angsty ending.

_It was a good promise to make, looking back on it now. The entirety of your adventure together was a wild and wonderful ride into uncertainty even if_ _… even if he’s gone to make his fortune, gone to live his life with another._

-✩-

With all the time in the world after a particularly good haul from some unsuspecting merchant ships, Edward found himself at ease in port and in your loving arms, looking to enjoy some quiet time away from the crew. And with the day’s heat on the rise, a dip together seems to be the best idea.

Even having just been on the open ocean, it’s hard to keep Edward from the sea for too long. He’s far too fond of its varied songs and temperamental ways. And as deep as his love for the vast blue expanse is, those affections for it are perhaps seconded only to his adoration of you. And thirded by a thirst for coin.

The two of you eventually make your way to a lagoon shaded with rocky outcroppings and lush vegetation. It’s a well-hidden favorite of Edward’s and more often than not, the two of you find refuge here when he returns.

“Remembered the blanket this time?” He smiles when you nod back. One too many times spent trying to get bits of sand out of places they don’t belong has seen to the requirement of a blanket whenever the two of you come here to get reacquainted. At times, when hurried lust and longing scream louder than sensibility, the two of you forget to bring one along and suffer the consequences. But today you’re well-prepared. There’s no amount of sand on this earth that will keep him from you today. “Good, we’re going to need it.”

“Think so, do you?”

“Aye. I know so.”

“And what makes you so sure?” By no means are you denying the fact that you will _definitely_ be making use of this blanket today, but who is he to be so assured that he can charm the pants off of you at any given moment?

He stops and turns to face you as you trail behind just a few steps. There’s something about his expression now — there’s a spark of playful defiance at having his abilities questioned. The man you’ve come to love has shown he will do whatever it takes to prove himself — to prove he is capable. And should you question his talent at getting you undressed, you may suffer the consequences. As pleasurable as they are.

“What makes me so sure?” His left leg lifts and crosses it as he begins to pull off a boot, throwing it down into the sand. A second follows the first and he stands barefoot with his toes buried. Despite the heat, the shade keeps the ground at a bearable temperature. He was closer to the water’s edge than you, but now moves back, watching you snicker and nod in response. “What makes me so _sure_ , lass, is that I have it on good authority that you find me irresistible.”

Well, he’s entirely not wrong. The two of you share a moment chuckling before he finally closes the distance to you. And it’s now in the dancing shade of the lagoon that you begin to appreciate him when he’s away from his men. All smiles and coy looks, smelling of and looking every bit as wild and untamed as the sea. But his eyes and grip on the nape of your neck are gentle. And as much as you want to keep your sight on him, your eyes fall closed to enjoy the feeling of his touch once more.

How many weeks have you gone imagining his touch while he was away before it finally became reality? He kisses your forehead and smiles against your skin as his free arm pulls you in about your waist.

“I do find you very appealing, Edward. Not so sure about _irresis_ —”

“You can’t turn down looking at my arse.”

“ _What_?”

“The boys tell me about the way you look at me when I board to leave port. Your eyes aren’t ever on my face. Not that I’m complaining.” He gently tugs the blanket from your hands, leaving you with one last chuckling kiss.

And for a few moments, you’re stunned.

Any time Edward plans for a trip, the two of you spend as much time together as possible the night before his journey. More often than not, that means being pinned underneath him grabbing at his ass for leverage while he leaves you with an aching reminder of just how much he’ll miss you out at sea. It’s a tradition of marking each other as much as possible. Bruising gropes and welting scratches. Even the memory of it now has you shivering your eyes closed in the sand. As you open them, the more physical pull of longing comes flooding back as you see the sway of his hips as he walks.

“Well, I am. I can’t get a good look at your arse with those coattails of yours.” You walk toward him as he fluffs the blanket through the air to lie gently on the sand. It’s plenty large enough for both of you to lie on, and your lover makes quick work of his clothes to acquiesce your wants. The weapons and heavy leathers fall away first, and soon his waistbelts and coat follow with a happy groan of relief from the weight and heat. Gradually, he peels away the rest of his outfit until it’s just his underpants that keep him from fully nude radiance.

The weapons in the sand serve as a harsh reminder of his life at sea. The life of a pirate and the ever-beckoning call of the sea.

“Are you planning to stay long?” The question is not one he enjoys hearing. It’s one that you enjoy asking even less. But… not knowing how long you may have with him is torture. A day? A week? A month would be a godsent blessing. But eventually, he will leave. And you will be alone once more.

He runs his hand over your hair and pulls you down to sit with him. You follow, resting with your back against his chest and his arms wrapped snugly on your midsection. “I’d stay forever if I could. You know that.”

The view of the lagoon before both of you is a familiar one. Softly lapping waves with green-blue depths. An entire cliffside above you that’s grown over with plant growth. Some less fearful birds chirping and flitting along their homes. And with the roar of the full-bodied ocean just outside, the air is echoing with the song of the area you and Edward call on to rest. To recover. To love.

“…I know,” you say softly, toying with his hands and the rough callouses that form from a life at sea. Working with harshly braided ropes and the sea-washed wood of the helm. The thought has you pulling his hand up to kiss at his knuckles and heel of his palm. For just a brief moment, you’d forgotten about the endless fighting he does. Fighting, exploring, and plundering. “But I want to know how long I’ll have you around.”

Even though you can’t see him, even though he hasn’t said a word, you can _feel_ him frowning. Usually difficult topics are saved for outside a peaceful place like this. All the same, the hand you kissed gently cups your chin to turn you to face him. Those captivating eyes search yours and you feel yourself balking. Any soft murmurs of apology are quickly taken captive by his lips, sun-parched and starved for your taste again. A single, rough kiss to have a moment of peace in the presence of the noise of the sea.

The moment ends all too soon.

“Lass,” he licks his lips, perhaps unaware of just how _dry_ they are until he felt them pressed against the softness of your own. “You’ll always have me for as long as I can. Always. I’ve no want to leave you.”

“I know.” The words are more fractured than you want. More pained than they should be.

“I don’t know what our future will have for us, but you know that I want you in it. I want you with me.” He turns you in his arms until you’re lying with your head on his chest, legs outstretched.

“ _I know_.”

He nuzzles against your hair for a long moment, a stretch of time that has the sounds of only the sea and air. You feel him smile against your head.“I’d rather wake up to your sweet face than the crew’s any morning.”

“Been taking the crew to bed with you, have you?” The outlines of his tattoos have always been a weakness of yours and even now in a more somber moment you can’t help tracing your fingers across his skin flecked with dirt and sweat.

“Ah, yes. Adé gets terrible nightmares. Kidd and Thatch keep me up all night with their damned gossip.”

You laugh earnestly. A soft but hearty sound that eases some pain from you with every exhale. _God damn_ , you love this man.

“Still rather wake next to you, though.” His hand toys with yours, warm and rough, as he inhales your scent again. “Jaysus, ’ve always loved the way you smell.”

“I wish I could say the same for you this moment.”

He snorts his surprise. “You saying I offend?”

“You could offend a shark out of the water to seek death on shore, love. When was it you last bathed?”

“Week or two at the most. Open waters don’t make for the best bathhouse.” Another kiss on your head and he stands, already familiar with adjusting to your preferences. And perhaps aware that if you were commenting your displeasure, it must truly be something rank. “Sit pretty and I’ll be back for you.”

Even with the bagginess of his underpants obscuring part of your view, small thrills of pleasure tingle at your spine seeing his rear after being apart. The view doesn’t last for long, though. The moment he’s at the water’s edge, he dives into the shallows and reunites with the salty kiss of the sea. Truly, the two cannot be separated for long. You’ve your own plans to get him running from the bosom of the ocean and back toward yours. But first, a bit of wily planning.

As he is, Edward smells of sweat and salt and sand. Not at all an unpleasant combination, but _some_ excuse was needed needed to get him out of his clothes long enough to try them on yourself.

Your own light garments fall away, underclothes and all while you redress in the garments that adorn his upper half. His coattails are plenty long enough to keep your nether region from view, but where’s the fun in that? Between stealing glances back at the shady, rippling water and positioning yourself at the perfectly seductive angle, there’s just enough time to get yourself in order before a newly-washed Edward huffs his breath from the water. Even in the shade of the overgrown lagoon, it’s a bit warm in his shirt and overclothes but nothing that can’t be ignored to eventually see that look on his face when he comes to shore.

He’s unaware at first, huffing water from his mouth and stroking his long hair from his eyes. You’ll have to cut it for him later tonight, you think, but first a tryst before a trim.

“’Fore you go thinking I don’t take care in my appearance,” he starts, wiping his eyes as he takes slow steps closer, still unprepared for what you have waiting for him. “I’ll have you know I received Adé’s approval before I —”

There we go. Trap sprung.

“I lied, Kenway.” You return his open-mouthed stare with a sparking start of a smile beneath his hood. Currently reclined on your elbows with your legs crossed, the man has a pleasant view of the expanse of your body. And he’s shameless in staring. Up your bare legs to your thighs just hidden under his hiked-high coattails. With the upper buttons of his coat and shirt left conveniently undone to expose tantalizing views of your chest. “Y’smell fine and you look finer.”

“Now why’d you go and do a thing like that, lass?” He raises a hand through his hair, muscles of his arm and chest flexing those tattoos attractively.

“Because it’s fun to tease you.” You admit plainly.

“Nay, not that.” He stands over the lower half of your prone form, droplets of saltwater coming from his wet body and beginning to seep past the fabric to your skin. “Why’d you go putting on clothes when you know I’m just going to take them off?”

“Thought I’d spend a moment to see what it’s like being the illustrious Captain Kenway.” You smile and welcome him to squat just above you, his hair clinging to his neck and cheeks. “At present, it’s a hot and muggy experience. Maybe I should try to see how Adé lives.”

He growls and closes the distance between you with rough kisses into your neck, tickling your skin with stubble galore. “Adé can dress as he pleases. But a _captain_ has to look the part.” The instant you give a soft mewl at a bit of skin caught between his teeth, he releases and licks the sore spot through. “At least I don’t have to wear a damned hat.”

“And cover up that beautiful hair?” The wetness of his hair sticks to your cheek as well until you gently pull away to exchange a hungry look in those endlessly blue eyes. “I’ve missed you, Edward.”

“I’ve missed you, too, love. Jaysus, I have.” He murmurs softly, trailing a hand across your bare chest and under your shirt to fondle at a breast just barely hidden there. And chuckles at your breath hitching itself short. It’s been ages since he’s touched you this way and he fully cups the heavy flesh of your breast, rolling your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “Missed the way you call my name. You know the way.”

“Edward.”

“No, no. Not like that. The _other_ way.” His free hand, mischievous as it is, trails up your bare thighs to cup your exposed sex with the tips of his forefingers rubbing at you.

“ _E-Edward!_ ” You hiss in a breath and shudder. If he weren’t already pressing you to lie on your back, you’d make to stand. But he has other intentions, other plans to see you unclothed in the mid-day sun. Exposed and bare with only his eyes and nature to witness your glory. His busy hands make quick work of the shirt and coat buttons yet undone all while his hand stayed between your spread thighs to take you to greater pleasured heights. That lusty, loving gaze locked onto yours all the while.

“Aye, that’s it, lass. Fucking love it when you sound like that.” With your clothes undone and still wetly clinging to your body, he leans forward and laves his tongue across the pulse of your neck.

“Been thinking of this long, have you?” He bites down in response and you cry out in a gasping laugh. Apparently, he _has_. Can’t say that you haven’t been thinking about this either. There have been nights spent awake pleasuring yourself to the thought of Edward coming home, bursting through silent doors to cover you with the love you crave. Such an empty feeling that you no longer have to feel this moment, this day. You dismiss the thought and extend your grasp to the hem of his pants, helping him from them as his hand still busies itself at your folds.

Much as the pirate Kenway does, you’ll be thinking only of taking what you want today. And today you want him under you, calling your name, and praising you to the height of his voice.

“Edward, lie on your back for me.” He immediately obliges, eager to see you enjoy yourself and take your pleasure. And he’s a sight to behold, laid back with the wet mop of his hair spreading behind him. Your hands trace across his muscled arms at first, along the planes of his chest, and finally down to his stomach as it rises and falls with each excited breath.

“Can’t say no to a pretty lass like you.”

You smile your amusement and move to straddle his chest with your rear facing him. “Been saying yes to other pretty lasses while away, Edward?”

“Nay, none are as lovely as you.” He guides your hips to straddle his face, taking eager licks to your pussy. You shiver at the compliment, at the feel of his tongue, and grind into his eagerly groaning mouth. His rough hands stroke your thighs and grope their way along, positioning you just so to give him plentiful access.

“Dam— _damned_ right there aren’t, Kenway.” You manage to shudder out when his fingers move from your thighs to your mound to spread you for wet kisses and bites. Greedy as you are, you won’t leave your love wanting for anything and lean forward to take his cock into your hands. His hips jut up into your hands, overeager and sensitive from so long without a soft touch, without your _familiar_ touch. The first wet kiss onto the crown of his head is deliciously salty, from the precum he leaks and the salt of the sea. You run your tongue over your lips and then again over his head to get him truly shivering.

“Missed your smell, missed your taste,” Edward takes an especially long, probing lick at your core. “Missed everything about you, love.”

“You’ve missed naught yet.” What little warning that is doesn’t prepare him for the feel of your mouth encircling him. He groans out, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he thrusts automatically into your mouth, seeking more of your lips and tongue. You slide his length over your tongue and deeper still until he’s rooted deep within your throat and huffing out unsteady breaths on your skin. His cock slips free with a wet pop. “If you stop I stop, love.”

He nods and resumes his exploration of your depths with one thumb spreading you open and the other thrusting thickly into you. “You’ll get all I can give and more.”

You’ll hold him to that. But for now, you take him back into your mouth, sucking and slicking his cock until he’s glistening in the sun and throbbing his pleasure. Eventually, one of his hands strays to your hair in a familiar grip while his legs bend for better leverage and you can’t help a lewd groan. He’s keen to pick _that_ back up is he? With his fingers knotted in your hair, he waits for your signal, your willingness. After a quick rise from his cock for a breath of air and lick of your lips, you wrap your lips around his head and hum your approval.

And he pulls your head down onto his cock, thrusting his hips to your mouth to bury himself deep. He groans, struggling to keep his upper half pleasuring you and keeping you slick while his lower half eagerly takes its pleasure. You steady your breath with practiced motions and run your tongue on the underside of his cock with every outstroke. Edward’s a darling man, rough around the edges and always eager to find new ways to pleasure himself. And after so many drunken requests to try it, the two of you had found that this position, with him able to bury your soft lips to the hilt of his cock, drives him absolutely _wild_. It’s a sensual pattern that’s been a part of his returns to land.

And it doesn’t take long before you feel the gradually increased throb and quickened pace of his thrusts. Today he’s particularly eager, love-starved, and craving the slick warmth of your tongue and lips swallowing him from tip to base. Occasionally, you tap his thigh for a reprieve from his eager thrusting to wipe your mouth and catch your breath. But soon enough the silent praise of his cock against your lips has you taking him into your mouth again. Sometimes shallow, slow pumps with your tongue and teeth teasing his head. Other times, it’s fast and deep, deliciously depraved in keeping you both on edge until he’s ready to burst. And judging by that telltale choked sob with the stubble of his beard scratching your thigh raw, he’s close.

His grip in your hair tightens and his other hand joins the first to hold your head steady for a proper fucking. Every so often, he pulls his cock free from your mouth, staring at the space between your bodies to watch you lick and suck on his head before he pulls you back down to extract all the pleasure he can from that exquisite mouth. As close as he is and as much as he wants it, he groans out a pleading question, wanting your approval before all else. “C-can I, love?”

A soft, vibrating groan around his length in your throat is all he gets in return. And it kills what little resistance he has left. This fierce pirate, this man who’s seen scores of bodies and coin alike, who fears nothing and bows to no man, crumbles under you touch and whimpers his release. Every muscle of him under you tenses and you stroke your hands across his thighs when he hilts himself and thick ropes of his seed spill down your throat. His agape mouth against your thigh bites down with each groan, hot breath spilling forth.

Soon, his tense muscles relax and begin to tremble as you continue your hot assault on his cock through the aftershocks of his orgasm. He’s oversensitive and it may prove a tad uncomfortable for him, but you have no intention of waiting to receive your pleasure from him. A pirate takes what a pirate wants, afterall. And today, you’re experiencing what it means to be a pirate. You release him from the wet prison of your mouth with a soft pop of suction, watching his cock bob against his stomach and licking your lips free of the salty taste.

You peek between your legs, adoring that tired expression of him under the shade of the tail of your coat. “I’ll get all you can give you say?”

“A-aye, lass.” He winces at the sudden dose of sunlight when you reverse your position and he throws the crook of his arm over his eyes to block the light. “A few moments and I can give you more.”

You hum in your place straddled just above his hips, flaring out your coattails as you sit with the folds of your pussy nestled on top of his tired cock. “I don’t think I will be waiting, Captain.”

He lifts his arm and shoots you a curious look.

“You’d best hold on.” Your fingernails dig into his chest as you begin to grind yourself onto his cock, adoring the way his free hand clenches the sandy blanket. His lips fold in between his teeth to bite back a groan. Whether it’s a pleasured or a strained one you can’t say. All the same, you lean forward to kiss his lips apart, gentle and accented with the taste of his cum. He accepts fully and winds his fingers into your hair to swallow your breath and needy groans.

Even if he can’t immediately give you the pleasure you seek, you’ll find a way to take it. And for all the groaning and squirming he does under you, he still slips a hand between your bodies to rub his fingers against your clit. You reward him by grinding even harder and he groans into your mouth. Soon enough, and perhaps with every ounce of will he can muster, his cock finds life again and strains against the softness of your mound seeking entrance. You chuckle against his lips and angle your hips to capture the tip of his cock and begin to press down. That pleasured hiss of his only encourages you to grind against him to bury inch after inch. Once your rear meets flush against his thighs, his strong hands grip your ass and bounce you against him in earnest.

He knows a second orgasm won’t be too far off with his member throbbing already, and he runs those same wet fingertips over the puckered hole of your rear. He kisses at the corners of your mouth when you grimace just slightly to adjust to the foreign sensation. Pleasure soon comes flooding in at having such a sensitive part of your body teased and toyed with and he grins. “Might not be me who needs to be holdin’ on.”

Perhaps not. Still, you grind yourself into his cock and gently rubbing fingers, looking for more pleasure, for the first climax of many now that you two are reunited. You kiss your way along his chest and rest your face in the crook of his neck. A soft crack of skin on skin rips through the air and you rise your head, eyes wide. The man under you slows his thrusting down to deep grinds, a playful smile on his lips at your reaction to a solid spanking. He intends to give you no quarter. “More?”

 _That_ _’s_ something new. You bite your lower lip and nod. “A bit softer, please.”

“’Course, lass.” He says when you rest your head again. And he eagerly resumes his thrusting into your clenching cunt. The slippery sounds of your lower halves meeting punctuated with the occasional spanks to your rear begin to overpower the sounds of  your surroundings. Harshly mingling breaths and groans, lowly rumbling words of encouragement, and more pierce the air until a few needy thrusts build the both of you to your final height.

“Edward… _Please_.” You breathe against his sweat-slicked neck and raise your head to kiss him. He murmurs back into the kiss and acknowledges the cue with both hands gripping your hips firmly for a truly mind-numbing series of rapid pumps. It’s more than enough, just the push you need to careen off the edge and cum, throbbing your release around his cock throughout his deep pumps. The delicious sounds of him appreciating that feeling, that _clenching_ that can only come mid-orgasm, echo into the kiss and soon he’s ready to spill a second time.

He steadies your hips and lifts you fully from his cock hastily. Quickly, he pulls you to sit atop his cock with the head just peeking out of the folds and grinds himself along the outside of your wet and satisfied pussy. He groans out your name just before you feel the telltale warm spurts of cum on your mound, across your stomach and his, until the throbs begin to subside. And after several hungry kisses you both lie together, well-spent and thoroughly mussed.

A few minutes later and your breaths and heartbeats stabilize. And, naturally, Edward can’t resist poking fun.

“Was it good for you as well?” He holds you close to his chest, still breathing out his satisfaction. The stickiness between your bodies doesn’t seem to be a bother as he kisses along your brow and forehead with a small smile.

You release a long-held sigh before answering. “I’d say it was quite the romp as we’ve ever had, love. A might less sandy than usual.”

He chuckles and nods. “Aye.”

For a long moment, the sounds of the lagoon come back — the calls of gulls overhead, the ever-present roar of the nearby ocean, but now there’s something else — the soft hum of a sea shanty from Edward’s closed lips as he rubs at your shoulders with the weight of his arms resting securely on your lower back, kneading gently into your skin. And for some blissful moments more, you hum with him and close your eyes, the both of you drifting off to another place, another time where you can be at ease and together always.

But reality has a way of crashing itself through daydreams.

And as the song ends so does the momentary reprieve from the knowledge that soon — much too soon — he’ll be off on another voyage to another land for another plunder.

You kiss the hard planes of his chest, across the ink embedded in his skin. And speak your thoughts. “Promise me something, Edward?”

“Mm?” The lazy massage of his hands stop for a moment before continuing.

“Promise me that whatever happens, even if something should happen and you cannot get what you seek… Promise me that you’ll try to be happy with what you have? Even if it’s not wealth or fame. Even if it’s not with me.” His stare is curious, almost upset, and you have to kiss him to keep him from starting an outburst. Begrudgingly he accepts the first kiss and even the second, but after the third, he pulls you away softly to catch your gaze. Lip quivering, you ask again. “Please, Edward?”

He stares on, quiet and calculating, looking tangled in his thoughts to process your words. Clarity comes after a few moments and he nods.

“’Course, love.” His lips meet yours again and after some loving rubs to your back, the two of you begin to smile again. The life you’ve built together has not been an easy one and perhaps never will be. Both of you fully realize that. But trying to chase that happiness flows through Edwards blood. And perhaps now, slightly less blinded by the follies of youth, he sees that he will not always have the energy or the fortune to continue the way that he has.

“And one more thing?”

“Name it.” His voice wavers a bit, perhaps nervous to hear what more you could ask of him.

“Promise me you’ll try to stay clean.” You gently poke his nose.

He snorts and rolls together with you until you both lie on your sides. The stickiness of his seed is still plastered between your wet bodies. “How can I do that when I’m my dirtiest around you?”

The both of you share a snorting laugh and rise, hand in hand, toward the water’s edge. To wash away the evidence of passion and longing. To allow the cooling waters of the ocean to cleanse body and mind. The two of you may not always be together. He knows. You know. But that won’t stop you from trying for as long as either of you are able.

-✩-

 _The next time he left port was the last time you_ _’d seen him personally, over a decade ago. It’s only now that you see his name in the paper alongside the name of his new family._

 _Edward James Kenway. A man you_ _’d come to love like no other who seems to be doing well with his wife and children — seems to have followed through on his promise to seek his happiness._


	3. Pierre Bellec x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre's a man with boundless dedication. You're not sure if you can say the same.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Unity spoilers, femdom, violence, and a -tiny- bit of blood.

All things considered, it wasn’t the nicest thing to do. And, with everything that’s happened, you can’t imagine it happening to a nicer person.

The look on his face while gathered among the council members had been _priceless_. His wide-eyed surprise slowly forming into his usual brow-furrowed leer at being volunteered — more so ‘voluntold’ — to immerse himself within the prisons of France in search of peculiar markings of old found within. Markings that only gifted Assassins may find.

Proud as he was, he didn’t turn down the mission. And stubborn as he was, he didn’t ask the council exactly _why_ they had elected him. There was only quietly muttered acceptance and a fierce dedication to the task that he takes with most anything else he does.

It was a perfect plan with flawless execution. And, with any luck, he’ll be incapacitated long enough to form a plan on stopping him or at the very least changing his mind.

Meanwhile, you have the honor of cleaning up his mess. In the many months of his absence with neither a word nor an inkling of him being alive, you tasked yourself with getting rid of his personal effects. Art, books, furniture, anything that looked remotely flammable is stacked aside in the corner of his quarters to make for fine kindling later. The task itself isn’t exactly gleeful, but it feels… necessary. The peace with your decision was made long ago and it’s not as though anything can be done about it now.

Once you slide open his closet though, something changes. Something cracks.

The scent of him comes back to you, long-forgotten and buried by the mask of duty. It delves within your chest and makes its home there, slowly corrupting righteous anger into something softer, something weak. His presence lingers on the coats, shirts, and trousers line the small closet, some neatly folded while others are carelessly tossed over — more than likely in his haste to begin his mission. But not for long.

It takes little time to empty the closet with the few garments he has in his collection and in the back of it, neatly hung and awaiting his return, is his prize. His Assassin garments that he treasures like a second skin…You rip it from its hangers and look it over. For most of his life he’s been captivated and dedicated to the Brotherhood, possessing him and twisting him into something almost unrecognizable.

The innocent clothing earns your scowl, as though it is singly responsible for the nights you’ve been awake crying until your body ached with worry over your decision. Your frown softens though and a familiar, but entirely unwelcome sensation forms in your stomach — a pull of desperate yearning.

_I miss him._

The thought bursts through the floodgates of your heart and sizzles against the anger found there before overtaking it, drowning it fully. You undress yourself and clothe yourself in his belongings. So soft, warm, and smelling of him — a hint of musk and fragrance. It’s a small token of solace that you can afford to ease this feeling in your chest. He won’t be needing these if everything goes well.

You stand and exit the closet, pulling the hood over your head and catching the scent of his hair as it slides to sheathe you. Where’s this heart-felt sentiment come from? Not at all like you to be so… nostalgic over him. But that nostalgia withers when you hear it.

“Getting rid of my stuff already? Should probably make sure I’m dead before doing that.”

First it’s shock, spiking white-hot heat and stinging at the corners of your eyes with the painful familiarity of _that voice_. Of that tone that’s been a part of you for so long. And then it collapses, tumbling downward from its peak into a pit of something much darker, lowly bubbling and thick with disgust.

 _That voice._ The one that’s supposed to be locked away. You swallow your breath, exhaling the steam of your anger fizzling at the tender love that had drowned it once before.

He’s back.

“ _Bellec._ ” A more putrid word has never left your mouth.

And there he stands in the far doorway. Plainly dressed and scruffy but looking much the same as always.

“Hello, dear. I see you have been taking care of my things while I was away.”

That’s a kind way of putting it. Most of his collections have been taken down and thrown into a corner if not outright broken. Statues, figures, books, clothes. If it had some semblance of him and what he cares for, it was garbage to you. And garbage needs to be burned.

“ _You._ ” Your lip curls.

“Me.” He replies. How could a word so short be edged with such weariness? He takes slow steps closer and you can see the hollowness around his eyes. Some weight has come off of him since his time in prison, since his time away from proper food and rest.

“And how did you get out? Did Mirabeau send for you?”

“You hadn’t heard? The people of France saw fit to attack the Bastille. Had an opportunity to escape and I…” His steps slow to a stop, kicks aside some shattered pieces of a vase he had adored. He clears his throat and continues stalking toward you. “I see you saw your opportunity as well.”

Whether he means the vase or the entirety of the destruction you have wrought on his quarters is unclear. He’s close enough to smell now, fresh and as clean as you remember him being. It resonates within your senses, bringing back images of happier times, less complicated times. Even as the smell slides back on your tongue, your stomach turns, wanting nothing more than to spit it back out.

“Don’t have to look so happy to see me.” He smirks, reaching a hand out for your hair peeking out of the hood — it’s grown since he’s been away — only to have it slapped down. There’s a consideration in his eyes when he sees a barely concealed snarl on your lips, briefly, before he clears his throat again. “I brought a gift this time: a new recruit.”

You scoff. “Bringing in some new fool to tutor, to be a miniature _you_ won’t solve anything. Do I have to put you in the ground for you to stay away?”

He’s tired for sure. More than likely, he only wants to come home to rest, to pretend nothing is amiss and return to a semblance of normality. You’d rather choke.

The roughness of your shoulder brushing his as you pass causes him to grunt. He blinks a moment before catching you by your upper arm, spinning you on your heel, and whirling your back hard against the wall. The blow clatters your teeth and before you can roar your fury, he steps closer — _too_ close. Noses just barely apart and his breath a smooth cascade of mixed drinks. Looks as though prison brought back some bad habits along with a bad attitude.

“Putting me in the ground might be easier, yes. Or you could _talk_ to me like a normal person.”

“If I spoke to you, would you see reason? Are you suddenly capable of listening? Of seeing anyone’s path other than your own?” You shift against the grip he has on you. It’s iron-tight as always. This song and dance has been played out before — too many times — and you have no interest in doing it again. “I didn’t think so. Let me go, you smell like piss.”

“It’s absinthe. Had a bit of a celebratory drink before I came to find my _wife_ destroying my room.”

“Yes, that’s what I said. _Piss._ Now let go.”

You push out against him, not fully sure why you haven’t stricken out against him already, but getting damned close to using a stunning amount of force. He seems to already be past that tipping point of using strength — the force on your arm redoubles and you’re slammed back into place.

Teeth gritted and muscles flexed, you snarl out your words. “ _What?_ What the hell are you do—”

“You can go, but you’re forgetting something.” He sidles closer this time. Not just his face but the rest of his body presses its warmth against you. At this distance, you can see the details of his face. Etchings and scars of a man who’s gone through hell and back; before you, with you, and probably after you should he survive.

 Perhaps if he were a changed man this situation would be almost favorable — irresistible, even. He’s still _himself_ , though. Driven, unbending, and a thorn in your side.

“I’m not apologizing.” You turn your head away from his searching mouth.

“I already know. God forbid you feel regret.” His hand toys at the hem of your coat and overshirt. “But you have something of mine.”

“If you’re talking about your ring, that’s long g—” He presses himself to your neck and your teeth clip your sentence short. In all of history there’s never been a man to press his luck as much as he and yet he continues. Anything at all to get a rise out of you, he will do it. And he will revel in it whether successful or not.

“Not the ring.” He gently pulls at the lapel of your coat. The ensemble of his that you’d been hesitant to throw away. It’s a signature piece of his collection — one of the few things within it that truly makes him _him_.

“…you can have them back after I change.” You shift your weight against the wall and push him away. He’s right back on top of you with an arm barred across your chest and a hand gripping your wrist just short of painfully.

“You’ve taken everything else precious to me. Can’t have this. I want it back _now_.” The demand rumbles low in the back of his throat.

“Bellec.”

“What is it, dear?”

“Get your _fucking_ hands off me.”

“Make me, dear.”

“I’m _warning_ you, Bellec.”

He plants a kiss at the tip of your nose. “I’m _very_ scared, dear.”

All things considered, there were plenty of opportunities the man had to avoid this particular outcome. Though, knowing him, it may have been exactly what he wanted. He wanted you to punch him in the gut with your free arm — he’d left himself open after all. And it was _he_ who tackled you after that even when you were content to leave.

After the blur of broken furniture and grunts to finally still the bastard for a moment, you sit atop his back pinning both his arms by the wrist while he struggles underneath.

“Just like old times, isn’t it?” He coughs. “Still bad at throwing your weight into your punches.”

“Why would I need to when I can just stab your disgusting, hideous face.” You lick away some of the blood forming at the cut on your lip.

He laughs heartily. “I remember you saying you liked the mustache and beard on our wedding night.”

That moment of reminiscence stings. Not so much that it’s a fond memory — but the fact that he of all people feels the need to bring it up. Here and now when he would normally be fighting his hardest to get free. The breath spills from your lungs in a heavy sigh and you release your grip on him to roll him over and pin his wrists under your legs.

“What do you want, Bellec?”

His tongue darts out to lick away some of the blood streaking from his nose that catches in his mustache. “I want my fucking clothes back. Give them to me before I —”

“Before you what? Look at you, Pierre. Disgusting.” You lean in toward him. “Pinned and downed without needing to break a sweat. A few months in prison done you in?”

That half-smile of his drops. He turns his head away. “Wasn’t prison that done me in.”

“Are you saying yo—”

“I’ll tell you what I’m saying if you’d let me _finish_.” You roll your eyes but he continues. “I’m saying… I’m saying I know it was you who recommended me to the council for that mission. Know it was you who wanted to send me away. I can wager a guess as to why, too, but…”

He writhes underneath you, a small movement in order to get himself comfortable. The pressure from your legs is more than likely cutting off some of his blood flow.

“But I don’t know _why_ you wouldn’t just talk to me.”

“I tried. You wouldn’t listen.”

He groans, turning back to face you. “And so you send me away?!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me. You have no right.”

“I don’t have any right to be angry, to yell at my _wife_ for _leaving me to rot?!_ _”_

This again. As if he can pretend to be so high and mighty.  
  
“Understand, Bellec, that I am more than your wife. I’m the _Assassin_ you married. The Assassin loyal to the Brotherhood, and the single soul who knows about what you plan to do to Mirabeau.” You shift your legs off his wrists, releasing him. “The one who hasn’t _killed_ you for your treason.”

Ever pushing his luck, his hands instantly go to your waist to pull you close. And you, ever the fool, allow it. He gnashes his mouth against yours, teeth and tongue pressing with bruising ferocity against your already sore mouth. And somewhere along the pain and disgust of having him daring to touch you in any capacity something else flares. A passion that’s not seen daylight, not feasted on the sun’s warmth in ages. He gently pulls you away and you spot a faint trail of blood on his lip that mirrors your own wound.

Damn if it doesn’t look good on him, lying beneath you so vulnerable and weak with fondness, confusion, and betrayal. His lengthy tresses spill out around his head, some wisps of shorter hair catching around his eyes.

“I know what you do for me — what you’ve _done_ for me by staying your hand.” He traces his tongue across his lip, wiping away all traces of your blood. “I just wanted—” He closes his eyes and you watch his throat bob as he swallows thickly. “…my time away from you has softened my heart more than my head.”

So he still has feelings for you, but is just as much of a fool as he was when he left. “You still won’t change your mind, will you?”

The shake of his head is small, almost barely perceptible. Deep down it’s what he firmly believes in. He’d gladly do it a thousand times over if it meant protecting the Assassins from Templar deviance. But he knows what it means to you and how it makes him look in your eyes. It must kill some part of him to admit it.

“Of course you wouldn’t. Why am I not surprised?” You sit up in his grasp and his hands follow the length of your arms down, still grasping needily but wanting to allow you free movement. He knows all too well what happens should he hold on too tightly. But at that moment, you feel it. Another familiar something that you wish he’d kept away. Having him around only needlessly complicates matters. “Bellec.”

“Mm?”

“You say your heart’s soft and your mind’s the same. Which of the two is controlling your cock at the moment?”

What clothes he’s been able to scrounge together on his way over do little to hide the press of his erection at your backside straining and pulsing its desire. Sure, it’s been some months since he’s had pleasure, but to think he’d be so delighted by his wife pounding him into submiss— …well, now that you think about it, it’s not entirely unlike him. But is still wholly inappropriate.

“Does it matter?” The blood from his nose has stopped flowing as much now, but his questing tongue has left a faint streak across his upper lip.

“Well,” you start. “One is a bodily reaction and the other is an attraction.” You free your arm from one of his hands to guide behind your back, down to your rear and across his crotch to cup him gently. “I’m asking which is happening at this moment.”

He groans, shivering and resisting every fiber of himself from arching into your hand.

“Answer me, Pierre.” Gentle undulations from your hand massage his shaft into further life.

Those eyes fall closed and he shudders in a weak gasp.

“ _Why_ are you hard, Pierre?”

Anger rises in your voice and he hears it. His eyes open, dewy and glossed over with affection that’s fast fading into lust with traces of rebellion at the edges. “Call me a fool, but —”

“Fool.”

He chuckles, pushes himself into your hand. “But I’ve missed you, dear.”

A sensation up the back of your neck, lightning-quick and prickling, makes your hand grasp his thickness that much harder. _He_ _’s missed you, too._

The two of you remain that way for some time. And he’s content to have you on top of him, scowling down at him for however long it takes while his hands lightly stroke your thighs and his hips press into your grip. It’s not a terribly unfamiliar sight — him underneath you with a hard cock and an eagerness to make things right. Matter of fact, it’s not too different from your wedding night.

You scoff.

“The bed is untouched.” You say, throwing his hands off you and rising. “Follow. _Not a word._ ”

He sits up and wipes his nose. “You’d be so cruel to me my first day home?”

You stop, pressing the arch of your bare foot against his erection, a bit harder than necessary to make him wince. Of course he can’t listen to a simple command. “Test my patience again, Pierre, and you will see how cruel I can be.”

This time he follows you wordlessly to the bed, stopping in front of you when you sit. What clothes he wears now are thin, hardly clean. That just won’t do.

“Clothes off, Pierre.” You cross one leg over the other. “I want to see what prison’s done to you.”

He obeys, first pulling his shirt over his head to reveal the experience-etched map of his body. Scars and a fresh bruise or two from his harrowing escape of the Bastille along with a trail of hair riding up from his navel to his chest. Pierre’s gotten a bit softer with a rounded pudge to his stomach. It seems as though prison has softened him but, like so many other things, failed to break him.

You’ll see if you can’t be the one to break him tonight.

Next, his pants fall away revealing more of his body, trained and tested by Assassins and military prowess. But there’s a part of him now that hasn’t been tempered by any creed or draft. The thickness of his cock throbs at attention, dripping his desire and eagerness to rekindle all the bedroom acts of times long past. You bite at your lip and he chuckles, seeing the obvious want on your face. A laugh he’ll come to regret later as you lean back on the bed, hands indenting the bed to keep yourself upright.

“You want your clothes back, Pierre?” He nods, an unsureness flitting behind his eyes. He knows exactly how crafty you are and in his current state he’s not in the best position to fight it. “Take them.”

The vocal command spurs his hands into action and slowly, with as much delicate care and reverence as someone as rough as he can muster, he begins to undress you. He kneels and removes your boots, kissing at your clothed knee. Seeing him this way, so eager to please almost makes it easy to forget that he’s a traitorous snake. This messy-haired, wild-eyed Assassin of a husband should be dead if you have any honor to the Brotherhood and the Creed. Instead, you sigh and allow your eyes to roll closed as he presses his hands into your chest, unfastening buttons and letting the fabric fall away. For one night, at least, the Creed can be put aside.

Snake that he is, he’s _yours_.

Soon, Pierre has you as nude as he is, and kneels beside the bed kissing at your outer thigh awaiting instruction. You pet a hand through his hair to cup his skull and he leans into the touch, his eyes closing and chest shuddering in a heavy breath. _God damn_ , he really has missed you.

“Pierre?” His eyes open. “I’ve missed you, too.”

Were the moment not so intimate, the sound from his lips would have sounded just like a punch to his gut. His body visibly wavers and the caress of his hand on your thigh tightens into something almost painful. Inwardly, you smile at his readiness. It has been a long time since you two last shared a bed, and the way he is now — pliant, almost begging… almost _broken_ — has your heart singing and your body thrumming with lust.

You roll your lower lip between your teeth when you see him struggling to keep from speaking. There’s words just behind his lips wanting to come out, to spill the emotions and need from being away for so long. “Would you like me to show you how much I’ve missed you? You can say it out loud.”

That quavering lip trips up his words. “ _Yes_ , m-more than anything, dear.”

“Lie on the bed then.”

Pierre’s cleverness stayed with him even after succumbing to the drink for years and life among the ranks of the Assassins only made him cleverer still. He knows what is to come and positions himself carefully on the bed to an angle that gives him the most light with soft lantern-radiance flickering along the walls. The man has always been especially stimulated by what he sees. And seeing you take your pleasure has always been his most favorite.

“Good.”

You kneel over him on the softness of the mattress, sitting on his chest with his mouth mere inches away from your cunt. You trace and drag your fingers along your wet folds _just_ to watch his tongue dart out and lick his lips. The moment his hands slide up to your rear, you cease your motions. And he snaps his hands away to force himself still. My, he catches on quickly: until your expressed permission, he is not allowed to touch, only watch.

And he does so with a low groan, biting his lip. What a pleasure it would be to ride that wonderful mouth and skilled tongue, to feel the prickle of his beard and mustache along the softness of your thighs contrasting so harshly with his soft lips. You rub at yourself faster and roll your hips; his eyes widen. “My body has missed you while you were gone. Has yours missed me as well?”

He nods, swallowing hard.

“Show me.”

His powerful hands hold your rear and ease your mound forward until blessed contact is made with loving kisses pressing against your inner thigh and labia. True to your memories, the feel of his beard and mustache on you is scratchy in such a delightful way — on the verge of both tickling and grating — as he kisses his way up to your folds and down the other side of your thigh. The underside of his tongue brushes against your skin as he cleanses his lips, spreading wetness across you with eager moans. You bite back a string of curses and grind yourself into his kisses.

 _“Merde.”_ You sigh out the word. “I’d forgotten your mouth was good for something oth—other than cursing.”

Pierre’s eyes fall closed when you begin to grind yourself into his hungry mouth, but the audible cue of your stuttered pleasure shifts the blissful look on his face one that’s more ravenous. The roughness of his warm palms gently massages your rear to bring you even closer to his contentedly purring mouth. Soft, wet sounds tickle the air as he alternates between kisses and bites to your labia and deep, undulating sucks to your clit. Before long, he presses deep licks into your pussy, sending bolts of pleasure to your core. He inhales, nostrils flaring, and hums against you. A subtle implication that he wishes to feel your love for him on his tongue.

You release a throaty chuckle, scratching your nails gently along his scalp. He’s impatient and his mouth shows it. “Of course, Pierre. Get ready.”

He groans against your skin, flicking out his tongue to taste more of you, capturing your bundle of nerves between lips and tongue to suckle. You body shivers atop him and it takes a tremendous amount of focus to keep yourself upright and in control. The bastard’s mouth is _fantastic_ , you’ll give him that, but you’ll be coming on his tongue on _your_ terms. The softness of your thighs close around his head and he groans harder, kissing and licking deeper at your clenching. Breathy encouragement from you lips to his ears has him trembling as much as you are, getting off to this _just_ as much as you are. Wanting your pleasure and sweet release.

He flicks his tongue against your bud again, kisses again, and brings his _teeth_ to gently apply pressure in a delicious contrast of firmness and softness. Your breath hitches, groaning out his name, and your ecstasy flares behind your eyes, sparking and throbbing on his tongue until it crests and overflows. Pierre holds you iron-tight to him while you ride out your orgasm, whimpering his need into your skin as you come to a crashing descent, pussy clenching its pleasured aftershocks.

A bit breathless, you stroke his hair from his eyes as he sets to work lapping up the aftermath of your need — without even needing to be told. And from the way he _still_ hungrily moves his tongue, you have to hold him by the hair and lift your hips away, fighting the strength of his hands.

“That was very good, dear husband.” Realization blips back into his vision and he tears his gaze from your pussy for the first time in a long while. His hold on your rear releases next — poor thing doesn’t even look like he was aware he was doing it. Still, you stroke your hand fondly through his hair and admire how you’ve left him. Lips, chin, and facial hair wet. Tongue lapping out to taste whatever precious remnants he can, breathing so _raggedly_. The sight sends your stomach tugging in desire again. “Look at you, Pierre. You’ve gotten yourself so messy.”

He holds still while you trace your middle finger across his mouth, gathering up wetness to deposit into his suckling mouth. He takes it, greedily, lapping at your fingertips and sucking them when you allow. It’s a good look for him, almost perfect — vulnerable on his back, eyes wide and wet with horny need, and being such an obedient thing. You adjust yourself to kiss him just once, very briefly, before you get up from the bed.

And make your leave.

He stutters and gets himself upright just as you near the doorframe. “W-wait! That can’t be all. I haven’t—”

“Haven’t what, Pierre?” You ask, footsteps stopped and back still turned. The view of your rear alone must be driving him _mad_. “You have your clothes.”

His hands clench at his sides. Surely, he knew this was coming. Knew that you would not allow him pleasure so easily. “I haven’t had enough of you. Haven’t _done_ enough to you.” He swallows. “I want to give you more.”

The words snap at your heart suddenly. You were expecting him to complain about his needs — after all, that was the plan. To have him begging and writhing at your slightest touch. But his pleasure, it seems, comes from pleasuring _you_.

You turn, voice soft. “What makes you think you deserve more?”

“I don’t.” He looks away with the words catching in the back of his throat. “You do, though.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t see your jaw going slack at such an honest admission. Whether it’s lust or love speaking through him now, you approach and watch him carefully. “I’m listening.”

“ _Please_ , dear, understand. What I do is for the _good_ of the Assassins, not their destruction.” He sits back on his legs, looking at you now that you are at the bed’s edge. The tension in his cock is still visible, still sensitive and ready to burst, but his eyes are on you. “Mirabeau’s gone too soft with this absurd truce. The Templar forces are gath—” He gasps out and winces when your hand tangles in his messy waves, tilting his head to get a better look at him.

“Pierre,” Mirabeau’s name is not one you want touching his tongue tonight. “Of the things you should be saying in this bedroom, _that_ is not one of them. Am I clear?”

He nods, smirking, with his gaze locked on you, as clouded with love and lust as ever. His streak of defiance is coming back — and it tingles along the back of your neck. “Of course, dear.”

“Good. And since you’re such a glutton for my pleasure tonight,” You release him and he edges back on the bed, unfolding his legs out from under him and lying propped up on his elbows. Judging by that look on his face, _he knows_ what’s going through your head. How much you’d like to see him twisted up and begging and trembling for anything he can get from you. And he welcomes it with thinly veiled defiance. “I think I know exactly what I’ll be taking from you.”

“You’ve always been good at getting what you want.” He remarks and lies back against the pillows. “Got me to stop drinking. Got me to marry you.”

“And yet I can’t get you to stop talking for more than a few minutes.” You climb in bed with him as he gets comfortable and reach into the nightstand for the usual effects.

He smiles. “Never said I was the perfect husband.”

“I know. I like you better this way.” Pierre’s eyes were roaming your body initially, but his gaze snaps up at your words, jaw opening in disbelief. Seems the both of you have many surprises to give the other tonight. Still, it’s a perfect distraction to bind his wrists together up and over his head. He furrows his brow and pulls against the restraints, testing its strength.

“This is… _new_.” He shifts on the bed. And you commit the view to memory: the _before_ of his body and face. The _after_ is going to be simply exquisite.

“Do you know what I want from you, Pierre?” He shakes his head and you lower yourself close to his ear, breathing hotly enough against his skin to make him shiver. “I want you saying my name until you’re hoarse.”

“There’s ways to do that without tying me down, dear.”

You crawl to the to the foot of the bed and he watches you with his heart beating excitedly in his chest. Your shoulders roll and you produce the other item you’d nabbed from the nightstand — a small bottle of personal oil. “I know, Pierre, but I want to do it _my_ way.”

He swallows visibly, but stays still as you spread his legs and douse his cock with the cool liquid. There’s a grunt of displeasure — even a grimace — but he’s soon rolling himself into your touch, panting out his need as the warmth from your hands spreads through the oil and across his slick cock. Some of his breath catches in his throat and you smile. He's noticed it.

“W-what is that?” Oil isn’t foreign to your nighttime activities. It’s even been a favorite of Pierre’s to coat your breasts in oil to slide his cock between them, but this oil is… different.

“It’s oil, Pierre.” You reply simply. It’s cute how he struggles to keep his eyes on you while you work, but it’s been so long, too long. His eyes shut when you grip him tighter, pumping harder with slick sounds filling the bedchamber air. “Oh, you mean _this_?”

You lean closer to your hands, blowing a cool breath across the tip of his slick head. He _howls_ and trembles in your hand, arching up against you at the sensation.

“That, dear husband, is _mint oil_.” You can feel it tingling somewhat on your hands, pleasant enough, but the feeling on his cock must be maddening. Tiny thrills of cool sparks making his cock throb and leak almost excessively. His eyes crush shut at the revelation and he throws his head against the pillows, cursing and arching into your hand for more of that delicious friction in his hypersensitivity — more of what sets those sparks to life.

“ _Fuck_ _…_ I forgot h-how soft your hands felt…” He growls out. Unfortunately, his eagerness will be his downfall, as cute as it is. The friction of your hands against him stops. And coolness sets in along his shaft as you release him. His eyes snap open. “ _Augh_ , why did you—?” And then understanding begins to form. “Oh, come on, you can’t expect me not to—”

“I can and I do, Pierre.” You suck some of the sweet oil from your finger, watching the defiance fade in his eyes. Your other hand slides your smallest finger across his dripping head to gather his precum. You switch hands and suckle that clean, too, reveling in the conflict apparent on his face. He wants to fuck, wants to cum, and feel every pleasurable bit you can give him. But, for now at least, he is required to keep himself still. Pierre’s head falls against the pillows again and he exhales hard, nodding.  “Good boy.”

A shiver wracks through him at those words — foreign but strangely appealing — as he sucks in a desperate breath and tosses his head to the side. You take him in your hands again, massaging your palm against his pulsing tip as your other hand fondles his shaft. Before long, he’s squirming in your grip again. Lust and need fill his lungs with whines and groans, building to a pitch as your hands increase tempo and crashing into deeper tones of disappointment when your hands slow. Every so often, you blow another wisp of air across his cock to get him groaning and leaking.

Back and forth, faster and slower. You guide him on a pleasured trip that has his stomach and lips quivering. His hips, though, stay still. Judging from the way his hands are wrenching the life out of his bed sheets, it’s taking every part of his mental fortitude to keep from fucking into your hands the way he wants. His lower lip is caught between his teeth as he groans, eyes closed. He’s _close_ to breaking.

“Pierre.” Slowly, his eyes open, he’s hiccuping breaths now and looking a prime example of a man willing to do anything to reach the heights of pleasure. You run your gaze up his body, from his slick cock, trembling stomach and chest, his awe-stricken face, and those powerful arms still locked in place above his head. “Would you like to come?”

His pupils are blown wide with lust, and he nods, shuddering in another breath.

“Beg.”

The command doesn’t even faze. He’s too far gone, too wanting, too perfect.

“Please, my love,” he starts. You lazily pump him as he speaks, occasionally squeezing to test his voice. “ _Mmmerde_ _…_ I know I don’t deserve it, but I need it. I need you. Please, let me cum.”

“Do you want to cum in my hands?” You lick away at some of the oil on the tip of his cock and for several seconds, his jaw is locked open in a silent groan, eyes shut tight before the tension leaves his body and his thoughts can process again.

“If you see fit.” He watches you slide up his body, seating yourself on his stomach. “I won’t lie — I thought of you wrapped around me many times while I was away. Any part of you. Every touch as soft and supple as I remembered.” His voice softens.

“Soft and supple, hmm?” You rob him of his words before he can answer with a firm squeeze to the cock nestled at your rear. “I assure you, this won’t be like anything you’ve remembered, Pierre.”

You lift your hips, angling him at your entrance and already you feel the tingling of the mint beginning its magic. Soft, wet noises of slick parts on others fill the room as you seat yourself, burying him to the hilt while he groans beneath you. Icy cool pleasure radiates from within as the lubricant spreads. It’s only just started and is already powerful enough to have you grasping at Pierre’s chest to steady yourself. A happy sigh at your lips, you roll your hips experimentally and every ridge of his cock feels … intense.

Details of your bodies become clearer, the soft ridges of his cock and the throbbing of his excitement within you pound harder than you’ve ever felt. A mental congratulation is in order, but before you begin your self-praise, you spot Pierre’s face. Contorted and teeth gritted in the ultimate, all-consuming concentration. You’re about to ask if he's okay, but it hits you.

The trembling in his body and the look on his face. He’s trying his absolute best not to hump into your sweet depths. A playfully naughty idea tugs your lip up in a smile. And, perhaps, he’s trying his best not to cum early. You mentally scoff. No way would he forgive himself for that one if he burst before he was ready.

“Pierre.” He hears your call again and opens his eyes. It knocks the breath from you. He’s teary-eyed, chest heaving, and looking absolutely _wrecked_. He’s really… truly missed this and missed you. You wipe your hands along the sheets before you cup his face, leaning down to kiss at his pleasured tears and corners of his mouth. “Are you ready, my love?”

He exhales a whine — words are beyond him now — and his lip quivers. You kiss him and smile. Just a little bit more pleasured torture and he may release.

For several slow, experimental thrusts of your hips the minty sensation is powerful, but you soon adjust to the feeling and move to find the angles that have both of you moaning your pleasure. It’s difficult, though, like maneuvering a fragile prize. Poor Pierre looks ready to break at any moment. And that moment has to be perfect.

You reach up to his arms without a word and begin to undo his ties. His arms are probably quite strained, but even as you release him, he lies still and looks to you for permission. He’s listening. He’s _obeying_ all on his own. You gently pull his arms down, guiding either hand to your hips with a loving smile. His breathing picks up, but he still remains still — he’s going to be as good as he can before he cums, it seems. You lean against him, breasts squeezed against him, and wrap your arms around his neck.

“I’ve missed you, darling.” You kiss him deeply, the aftertaste of mint still swirling on your tongue when he groans in your mouth. “Please, fuck me. Cum in me.”

The fuse ignites. His grip on your hips presses hard enough to leave morning bruises and he _thrusts_. In the time it takes to suck in a breath to cry out, he’s thrust _again_ , deeper and harder than before. You tighten your arms about his neck as he starts a fast, pummeling rhythm to bring you both to the finish you seek. He whispers: curses, praises, needs, senseless things that string together on his lips louder and louder until it breaks into a single utterance — your name.

Over and over, he says it. Pressing his cheek against yours as you cling to him, with your pussy clenching around him so close to release, building the both of you higher and higher. He humps against you, breath hot against your ear and says something else, much lower. Much sweeter.

 _Je t_ _’aime._

And it shatters you. Teary-eyed and needing him as badly as he needs you, you say it back. Back and forth until your voices are nothing but pleasured, desperate moans and he shatters along with you.

He's still pawing at your hips after spilling himself deep within, and that familiar slickness makes you shudder when he pulls free and repositions you in his arms. It's a loose embrace, but he has no intention of letting you wriggle away just yet. How could he when he can't take his eyes off you? What had been hollow and tired from the effects of prison were now refreshed, revitalized after an evening of passion. You close your eyes and rest against him; he kisses your cheek and softly mutters. “Don’t deserve your kindness or love after these years, but I can’t imagine being without you."

He kisses at your closed eyes, a soft and tender expression of his love that he reserves for moments like these. Fragile moments of peace that are all too rare in the lives of Assassins.

And yet…

The anger swells within you, swirling in your mind like a whirlwind of lightning and rage, picking up and throwing down other unfathomable emotions — all of them pointed and dangerous and clawing at the furthest reaches of your soul for release. To spill from mind to mouth and tell this man, this horrible man, exactly how you feel.

And yet.

Just as quickly as it spurs to life, the storm breaks. Your heart is weary from this fight and only desires to love again. To love _him_ again.

Those gently-kissing lips move from your eyes to your cheeks to brush away tears that had begun to form. “I know, my dear. I’m sorry.” He says, softly rumbling and warm. “Please don’t be angry with me. At least not tonight.”

“I’m… I’m not.” It’s a poor lie, but he accepts it. For several minutes he holds you that way, allowing the tears to fall and sobs to wrack you. He knows it’s a lie and he will hold you through the storm of it as you come to terms.

Late into the night after cleaning yourselves — but not the room, that’s for another day — his hands are rubbing at your back as you lie together, teasing comfort along your spine as the warmth bleeds under your shirt. You sputter out a short breath followed by a longer breath.

Damned man is a fool. And… for what you’re about to do, what you’re about to say, you’re a fool, too.

“Pierre?” He looks to you warmly, but it fades when he sees the resolution on your face. He knows the look — the one where you're about to say something serious. And your mind screams at the idiocy, the sheer _lunacy_ of what you’re about to say. Your heart, however, does not care.

“Yes, dear?” He strokes at your hair as you rest with your head on his chest, breathing in the scent of him. You run your hand across his chest a moment or two before speaking. He’s going to give you _such_ a look for it, you know, but the words come out anyway. Slow and blunt.

“Poison,” you start. “Poison would be best. For Mirabeau. Quick and painless.” He turns to look at you and you close your eyes. Anything would be better than answering that look on his face. “And it will be easy to pass the blame along to someone else if detected.”

He says nothing, but does run his hand over your hair once more before he kisses your crown.

Later, much later, as the two of you are drifting into sleep after a silent evening, he speaks a soft whisper. _“Je t’aime.”_

You say it back, more resolute and sure than ever.


	4. Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor Kenway x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside the home, things are business as usual for Connor. But inside it...
> 
>  **Warnings:** Anal play, rimming, mostly fluffy smut.
> 
> [Translations at the end of chapter notes.]

When faced with the obstacle of a rainy day, a person generally has three options. Go out and enjoy it, trudge through it seeking shelter, or watch gleefully from a cozy dry area. And with storm clouds gathering making the already dark evening that much darker, you elect to go inside. Just in time, too — minutes later a downpour starts with the rumble of thunder in the distance. The charming start of the summer storm season.

The inclement weather rolls through with growing ferocity, occasionally roaring out thunder loud enough to shake at the windows of the Davenport Homestead. It makes it dreadfully difficult to focus on reading curled up in a fireside armchair — each time you settle into a gripping part of the tale, a crack of thunder yanks you back to reality. Hard to imagine a thunderstorm as being a petulant child, but it certainly seems an apt description as it refuses to give you peace for long.

You stretch your legs and rise from the chair to approach the window and peer out at what you can past the rivulets of water against the glass. Well, it’s certainly dark. And stormy. Beyond the sway of trees at the mercy of the wind, there’s not much else to notice. Though a lightning flash miles away lights the night sky for a fraction of a moment.

It’s horrid weather out there.

The kind that you usually don’t have to endure on your own.

But, as per usual, duty has called him away.

Later during the night, you’re not quite sure when, there’s another rumble of thunder that shakes the ground more than the sky. You clench your eyes, willing the sudden fright from you system, and breathe. It’s just a storm and nothing to worr—

A knock at the door scares you more fiercely than the thunder had, but you’re up on your feet in a second, padding barefoot toward it in eager anticipation. It _has_ to be him at this hour. Who else could it be?

Another series of knocks and you creak open the door.

And your heart jumps at seeing him — even if he’s looking much the part of a wet dog and just as happy as one when he sees you.

Connor lifts you without effort, and this mountain of a man gives you the grizzliest of bear hugs, spinning you once before realizing just how much he’s soaked your clothes through with affection. As he sets you back down, you both laugh. You, at the delightful way his lengthy hair sticks to all parts of him, and him at the very apparent marks on your now-wet clothes where his body met yours.

He instead opts for a wet kiss, tendrils of his hair crossing your cheeks when he leans in. “I am sorry, I just — I am so _relieved_ to be back home. I have wonderful news, and I was so happy to see you. And are you—” He steps back again to look you over in the dim candlelight. “Are you wearing my clothes?”

He smiles his amusement and you smile back, already having forgotten slipping into an older version of the uniform he currently sports. It’s well-worn and soft — much too soft to be considered armor any longer, so why not re-purpose it into sleepwear? “I am, but perhaps I should have saved them for you. Look at you — you’re soaked! Did you ride all night?”

Connor nods, already removing his boots and beginning to tell the story of his ambassadorial mission. It’s a very interesting tale.

Or at least you assume so.

Can’t really say you’re paying attention to his words when the handsome man immediately begins to strip the rest of his wet clothing from his body. He unbuttons his overcoat weighed down through its fibers by excess water, plopping it in the corner of the entry way. The undershirt he wears is just as sodden, sticking to his body and displaying every intimate detail of his stomach and chest. He grabs at the hem of it with both arms crossed and begins to pull it up, stopping just as his navel is revealed.

“Something the matter?” He asks, noticing your stare.

Unsure of just how _long_ you were gawking, you balk.

“I-I, uh… Nope. Nothing’s wrong.” Goodness, he’s oblivious to just how _good_ he looks. You swallow, pointing to the glow of the living room. “There’s a fire going if you want to warm up — maybe hang your clothes to dry? I’ll bring some dry blankets.”

He accepts with his usual warm gratitude and for however long it takes to fetch blankets, your mind buzzes with what he may look like upon your return. Perhaps seated in his underwear in the armchair looking regal and stoic in the firelight? Or even laid out on the furs amassed a little ways from the hearth, warming himself and resting.

The sight that you’re greeted with upon your return, however, is in a class of its own. The only thing left clinging to his body are his trousers, soaked through and sucked against his skin as he squats in front of the crackling fire. He wrings out the water in his long tresses. And smiles as you appear.

“You, ah, you said the trip went well?” Words tumble out of your mouth as you step closer. You’ve seen him naked more times than you can count, but there’s something about him when he’s wrapped up in simply accepting his near-nudity. Nothing crass or suggestive about it — to him it’s mere skin that he’s been happy to reveal to you time and time again.

“Yes, the branch of Assassins in the southern colonies is flourishing better than I had hoped.” Connor tosses his head to reign in his hair, still a bit heavy with water, and hooks his thumbs into his trousers. They, as well as his undergarments, come off and are hung by the fire. You close your eyes and say a small prayer, a tiny thank you to any deities that may be listening. A thanks in part to your lover returning safe and sound, but a much larger thanks for the way he is so effortlessly himself. Unembarrassed and warmhearted. “Most Templar activities have come to a standstill.”

A heated shiver melts your spine when he sits atop the furred rug and beckons you closer to him. You oblige his silent request, but he furrows his brow.

“You don’t want your clothes off?” The question is a simple one, unperverted by sexual intent, and instead fueled by care. Just as he feels about his own body, he feels no nervousness at seeing you at your barest. Connor still admires your form — greatly when he’s in especially lustful spirits — but for now he only wants your comfort and assured warmth. He offers his hand out to pull you into his lap.

You accept and sit on his folded legs, tucking your own legs to the side as he begins to help you undress from his own familiar robes from behind.

“It almost feels as though I am undressing myself.” Clasps and buttons fall open and the wet overcoat slips down your shoulders and out from under you as he pulls it away. Connor laughs softly and comments, more amused than teasing. “I did — I did not know you were not wearing anything underneath.”

“It’s storming, but it is warm enough inside. I didn’t want to get overheated.” You reply and he nods, pulling your naked and slightly cold body against his furnace of a chest and wrapping a blanket about you both.

Glorious body heat radiates across your back and shoulders when he wraps you up in himself. And it’s almost overwhelming. The heat, the pulse of his heart, his skin sliding against yours, and the wet tickling of his loose hair sticking to your skin. You shift against him, for more of his touch, and feel the limpness of his cock at your rear.

Truly, for him this is only a moment to wrap each other with all the love that comes from a couple being separated for too long. He paints soft kisses at the back of your neck, soft breath rhythmically tickling your skin. “I am sorry the trip took longer than expected.”

You shake your head and he leans in closer, even more of his wet hair clinging to your shoulder. “Nothing to apologize for, Connor. I know what you do is important.” You toy with his hands on your lap, so close to your core yet so innocent in their intentions. “It was good practice in taking care of the homestead anyway. I had to repair some fencing the other day after some of the hogs got rowdy, you know.”

“It went well? You did not hurt yourself?” Always with the soft-spoken concern.

“No, not really. Just got incredibly dirty. You should have seen me out there — I was a mess. But that’s hardly as exciting as your news.” You turn your head to kiss at his cheek. Really, this should be a time for celebration, storming or not. “I could fetch us something to drink if you want?”

He squeezes tighter, nosing into your hair and muffling his voice. “No, thank you.”

“You’d prefer to sit? Enjoy each other’s company?” He nods against you and you giggle at the tickle of his arms encircling your stomach to pull you closer. “Okay, okay, we’ll sit.”

For a long while, peace in the midst of a storm continues. You both enjoy each other’s warmth and your nestled position against each other in silent. The violence of nature outside and the soft crackle of a more tamed force of nature provide all the ambient sound needed. It’s pleasant enough on the ears and after so long, you yawn.

“I missed you.”

Your smile distorts your yawn and you look to him, a bit glassy-eyed. “I missed you, too.” You snuggle into him. “It’s a shame you had to make the trip back in such terrible weather, but at least you shouldn’t be called away anytime soon, should you?”

He inhales deeply, chest expanding against your back. And you could simply kick yourself for asking such a thoughtless question. He’s only just gotten home and would surely prefer to think of things besides having to leave again. Stillness passes with only the lightly muffled sounds of the storm and popping fire in your ears. Eventually, he speaks.

“I am not sure.”

That’s not the happiest sentence he’s spoken that evening. Initially, he was so thrilled that Templar activity had ceased to the south, but… now it seems it paints an unclear picture of the future. What fight is there left when the enemy is gone? What purpose does a vigilant force have if there’s no further danger? Still, this is an opportunity to highlight the good — the present and perhaps a more positive future.

“But… with Assassin forces growing and Templar forces waning…” You start, turning to the side in his arms. “Does that mean I’ll be having you to myself more often?”

He thinks a moment and nods. “Yes. But that also means you will have to wear your own clothes.”

Well, he certainly can’t fit in _yours_ if you end up wearing all of his. “Fair enough, but in my defense, I was feeling a bit sore after today’s chores. Ended up in the bath and, well, since you aren’t using it, I put on your coat.”

“To sleep in?”

“…eventually, yes.”

“Why?”

“They’re very soft and comfortable.” The first admission comes out simply. The second struggles past the lump growing in your throat. “…and they smell like you.”

His eyebrows arch as the compliment settles in his mind. His smell is a _pleasant_ one and one that, if given the opportunity, you will happily wrap yourself in? His smile stretches across his lips, slow and wide. He pulls you in closer and you suck air through your teeth in pain. What had been fondness on his face immediately melts into concern, but he remembers.

“You said you were sore?” He lifts his hands from the spots on you they’d recently touched.

“Just a little. In my back, but it’s nothing to wor—!”

His hands are already at your forearms to coax you to turn toward the light. He studies what parts of you he can see and he frowns. “You have… bruises.” It’s hard to notice the marks in the dark, but he bites his lip at them all the same. Goodness, he’s cute, but he needn’t worry.

“And callouses and cuts and dirt that gets in places you won’t believe. That’s part of life here, Connor.” You laugh lightly. “I’ll be _fine_.”

“Will you lie down for me?” He asks, and his voice strikes your heart between beats. Such a sweet and gentle tone — how can you say no? He helps guide you onto your stomach, offering a bunched blanket to rest your head upon. And after getting over the tickle of the soft furs against your breasts, stomach, and thighs, you sigh contentedly. The way he’s staring at you is so lovingly concerned.

“This better?” You ask, shaking your bare rear.

“Yes.” He says, looking over the expanse of your shoulders, back, and legs. Discoloring bruises are scattered about in various shapes and sizes — the loving kisses planted upon you from life on the homestead as it teaches you lessons and widens your experience. Warm, thick fingers trace lightly across them.

This most recent trip marks the longest he’s been away and the longest you’ve gone without his help with day-to-day chores. He may, in some small part, feel responsible for these new, minor injuries.

“I’m fine, you know. Strong as ever, just a bit — _nngh_ — tender.”

“I know.” He says quietly, still tracing his hand over your shoulder blades. You wince slightly and recall that one — you’d landed hard on your back pulling down stored bales of hay. He mutters out an apology as he shifts himself. You glance over your shoulder and see the shadow of him moving to straddle your back, not touching, but getting awfully close.

“Connor?”

Cool, silky traces of his hair touch your skin before his mouth does. And the contrast of the _wet and cool_ with the _wet and warm_ on your skin makes your back arch. His mouth washes your flesh with open-mouthed kisses, taking careful measures to avoid the more tender hotspots of your body. You grasp at the blanket tucked under your cheek and will yourself to relax.

Initially, he’s at your shoulder blades and neck, whispering softly. “I’m sorry. I should have been here.”

Your toes curl at the feel of him murmuring into your skin. “It’s— It’s fine, Connor, really I— _nngaahh_ _…_ ”

And he moves lower still, dipping his lips into the sweet dip of your spine with the powerful press of his hands working at your freshly-kissed shoulders. Fingers and palms work in unison to knead and work at your muscles, blood like fire under your skin. And damn that hair of his still trailing like an icy chill stopped at part of your spine in his slow descent.

Tonight, it seems, he will commit to memory every trace of you that’s new. Each mark of your errors and accidents that he may have been able to shield you from had he been here.

“If i-it makes you feel better, what you’re doing is helping.” He draws soft groans from you with each pass of his powerful hands. How someone so muscled can be so tender still surprises you even in delicate moments like this. The heat of his hands linger as they draw further downward, chasing the trail his mouth and hair leaves behind.

He crisscrosses down you back. Kisses in one spot with gentle bites and licks followed by a hand massaging the faint wetness into your skin. Creating such a _heat_ , such a longing…

By the time he gets to your rear, you’re breathless and can hardly recall pain in the face of such dizzying delight.

“Better?” He asks, still planting kisses on your lower spine with either hand massaging at twin bruises on your hips — an ungraceful reminder of when you’d accidentally shut the barn doors on yourself.

“ _G-god_ , yes.”

He hums pleasantly against your tailbone, kissing lower still.

You softly protest. But he continues, mentioning that there are parts of you still injured and unsoothed. He gently spreads your legs to massage at the globes of your ass and upper thighs — concentrating both hands on one thigh at a time before moving lower. Pleasure and relief spreads smoothly in your tired muscles and aching joints. Goodness, he’s good at this.

“Where did you learn how to…?”

“I know the pain.” Hands work themselves across your calves and ankles. He works at the pained soles of one foot and then the other in silence for a while. “I had taught myself in the beginning. The rest I learned from other Assassins.”

Ah, the southern branches he’s met with so recently. No wonder he is eager to demonstrate what he’s learned.

Part of you inwardly frowns at whoever had had the pleasure of showing Connor how to seep healing deep into flesh and muscle and bone. He doesn’t let you rest long in your wandering mind, and presses his chest against your legs. Curious, but willing, you lie still and feel the warmth of his knuckles spreading your inner thighs wide.

It’s not like him to be so forward with your most intimate parts. He reacts neutrally to nudity, yes, but that neutrality does not usually involve touching. You hear him swallow his emotions, whatever they may be, and press yourself into his hands appreciatively.

“I’d almost forgotten… what it was like being this close to you.” He leans in close.

He’s so sweet with his tender care. You smile against the blanket. “Mmmn, Connor.”

That is, until his hands begin to press your cheeks apart.

First, confusion.

He kisses his way down the cleft of your rear, spreading you with presses of his thumbs, and dribbling a bit of warm liquid onto your tight ring. You arch away from his touch, from the _strangeness_ of the sensation. With his hands still on you and the physical barrier of the floor beneath you, it’s not far.

Then a much more _intense_ confusion that has your head shooting up with a start.

If Connor bothered to look up and gauge your reaction in that moment, you didn’t catch it — couldn’t catch it. That very moment, he delves himself between the globes of your ass, teasing soft kisses across your puckered muscle that has your toes curling and throat echoing cries. While you struggle to find your words, he continues his gentle ministrations. Unsure shivers tickle at your spine at the feelings — the softness of his mouth and wetness it brings. It’s the feel of his tongue lapping out against you that does you in, causing you to shiver in his hands at full force.

It’s strange. Bizarre, even. But it’s not unpleasant.

Soon, the circle of flesh relaxes and he moans against you, happy to ease your tension and heighten your pleasure. Connor traces the knuckles of a hand to your more southern opening. And to your surprise, his fingers find little resistance when two fingers guide themselves knuckle deep. He groans against you, feeling your readiness for him inside and out and pumps his digits eagerly. The soft, wetness of his tongue swirls at your entrance between kisses and before long your arching away from him steadily changes to pressing yourself against him for more.

His mouth releases its hold on you a moment and he dips down, hair tickling at your hip. The loss of contact is brief — so brief as Connor presses the flat of his tongue against your pussy to pull another moan from you. He licks and sucks against you even as he thrusts and curls his fingers deeper inside to really set you bucking against him.

Whatever this is he’s picked up, and _wherever_ he’s picked it up, you may have intentions to send him back to learn more.

The crack of his smile can be felt against your wet lips and he moves back to his previous target with hungry abandon, tasting you through your pleasured cries as his hand spreading you pushes you firmly back down. There’s no hesitation in him now. Moaning his name only has him licking at you harder, pressing his face deeper, and thrusting his fingers faster. You call out your pleasure, your desire for more.

And receive a soft bite to your rear and a thumb at your clit as your reward.

You grip at the blanket under your chin, closing your eyes to enjoy each moment the breath is stolen from your lungs. Back and forth he goes, tasting both of your holes like a man starved until he finally settles on one to finish you with. His hot palms spread your rear and his thumbs tease at your ring while his hot breath teases your pussy. Even before he began switching holes, you were close. Now it seems Connor will build you up all over again to see you crumble.

Connor strokes your opening with his tongue in broad licks that intensify with your every shuddering moan. The fluids leaking from your core are his to enjoy, to lave at, and suckle upon until you give him what he truly desires. You whine into the fabric beneath you. One of his questing thumbs is pressing itself, blunt and thick, at your backdoor. You squirm, but it insists, gentle and rubbing residual slickness at your ring until it loosens enough to allow a fraction of the warm flesh inside.

“Please,” you gasp out. “Please, Connor, I —”

The rest of the words are clipped short by his tongue slithering past your opening. He laps deep within you, knowing that you need — what your body needs — and he is ready to give it to you. A second thumbtip prods at where the first is settled, stretching you in slow, gentle pulls. The tension draws a long, shuddering moan from you, the heat in your cheeks rising.

Your release is fast approaching and Connor is poised between your legs, mouth open and ready to devour all you can give. The thought alone would be enough to send you over the edge, but he has other plans. He pulls away with a sound of wet suction and your cunt clenches around nothing, aching to be filled again.

He quells your worry in a swift moment and you feel another familiar heat against you. The head of his cock presses against your pussy and he thrusts shallowly against your slick opening, coating himself in your mixed fluids. His voice is ragged and beaten as he speaks. “The… the Assassins of the southern colonies assured me that would be a welcome surprise. Are you pleased?”

Damned kinky _bastards_. With as much downtime as they now have, is this how they choose to spread learning amongst their ranks?

Connor leans forward, pressing the pulse of his cock intently against your slit, and pins you between him and the soft furs still tickling your belly. Rather than answer, you pull him forward by the length of his hair still dripping wet and give him a ferocious sidelong kiss. The taste of yourself on his lips is heavenly. And almost as exciting as the whimpering moan it pulls from him, shaking you to your core. Always happy to please and explore…

You arch your hips against him, trying to guide your opening to his tip. The thrum of need within you, the need to be filled to the brim and fucked thoroughly, can’t be ignored. The quavering plea leaves your lips. “I’m beyond pleased, Connor. But please, _please_ , I need you.”

“I-I know.” He bites out past his own held arousal. His cock is throbbing against you like crazy and every little movement creeps him closer to an early finish. Still, he grips your hips with the bulk of his weight being steadied on his forearm. “But they showed me more…”

He presses himself into you before you can ask exactly _what_ else he has to show you, and his thickness fills you in one fluid stroke. The sound from his mouth is almost painful and his heart is pounding at your back once he begins thrusting. Flashes of lightning and firelight set your shadows in a heated dance. Connor snaps his hips against you, relishing in the feeling of your tight warmth gripping him. He curses once when he has to hold your hips still from trying to steal more pleasure. And he curses again when he pulls his cock from you fully.

You groan and again your pussy is left empty and wanting after just a taste. Connor lifts himself from your back and steadies his hands on your ass. His slick length slides up your cleft to saw back and forth. Sticky sounds punctuate the air and you can feel every pulsing vein of his cock just barely holding back his cum.

“They—” He gasps. “They said that… holding back pleasure increases how intense it feels.” You turn your head and see him staring very intently at his dick trapped between your cheeks. Those soft eyes are lustfully clouded and every roll of his hips has him biting at his lip a bit harder. You roll your hips in his hands just to see that conflicted look flashing across his face. He would like nothing more than to edge you both until you’re both mad with lust.

But in his journey to get there, he fails to see he’s already arrived.

You rest your head on the folded blanket and call his name. His eyes snap into focus and look to you. “I love you.”

The breath stuck in his chest releases and he smiles in understanding. A small wisp of a smirk. He directs his cock back inside you and leans into you, kissing up your back and shoulders until he kisses the breath from you, too. He’s free to do as he likes, free to demonstrate his learning. But the lovemaking between the two of you need not be so… experimental. The tried and true ways do just fine.

Connor rolls his hips into in a steady rhythm, panting against your lips. “Say it again.”

You kiss him back, waiting with a smile.

He thrusts _faster_ , gripping your hips tightly. The lustful impacts rock you against the furs and you bite at his lower lip. “Please. Please, say it again.”

You guide a hand up behind you to tenderly hold his head, bringing his ear to your mouth to gently lick and pull at his lobe before whispering. Low and soft and spiking pleasure straight through the both of you. “ _Konnor_ _ónhkhwa_.”

Connor visibly shudders, stilling his hips for a moment to keep the both of you still long enough to kiss you. Deep and full of passion straight from his heart to his lips. And again, he starts that familiar rhythm, pounding spikes of lightning-tinged pleasure straight to your throbbing core. The air is thick with the sounds of slick noises. Over the crackle of fire and the looming boom of thunder.

“ _Konnor_ _ónhkhwa_ ,” he says back. He muffles your moans, saying it again and again until he feels your pussy throbbing in blessed release. And still he thrusts, teetering on the edge of orgasm, wanting nothing more than to spill himself deep inside you. You kiss him back once and lie your head down as he takes the pleasure he needs from your body.

Connor’s beautiful like this, eyes closed and jaw open in unrestrained desire, hair falling about his face and shoulders as he fucks you raw. A pure mix of love and lust clawing within him to be set free. 

“ _Konnor_ _ónhkhwa, Ratonhnhaké:ton._ ”

He chokes out a sobbing groan, lowering his mouth to the nape of your neck as his hips come to a shuddering stop and his cock throbs release inside you. Thick spurts of cum punctuated by a death grip on your hips until every last drop is pulled from him by the gently milking walls of your cunt.

The sweat on his chest, the feeling of his hair draped over your shoulder, and his heart still thudding against your back mark the signs of a man good and spent. And yet, Connor lifts a hand to your face, caressing your chin and kissing at the corner of your mouth gently until you both find slowed breath and normal heartbeats.

Coolness sets in immediately and the sound of the evening returns to your ears. He rolls from you back and as soon as he does, the _soreness_ comes back. Seems you’ve traded in one bodily pain for another. You smile inwardly at the idea and welcome the warmth of his arms turning you on your side to lie with him under a blanket.

Quiet reigns for a time. Quiet punctuated with gentle kisses on each other’s skin while basking in fireglow.

“The southern branches taught you that, hm?”

“Yes.” Connor is lying behind you on his side with his forearm tucked under his head, fast approaching sleep.

“They didn’t have anything else in mind to pass the time?” You softly muse as you play with the hand of the arm wrapped around you. Such a large thumb… Hard to imagine he’d been able to fit any of it inside you…

“They… were different from the Assassins here. More relaxed. Their dangers were not as profound.”

“Ah.” So they have their own ideas of how to have a good time and relax. Perhaps later you’ll have to ask Connor to tell you some stories. From the sound of it, he’d been dragged through some new experiences. You sidle closer to him, resting your head against his chest. And as unpleasantly sticky as the patch of fur underneath you is, you have no intentions of getting up anytime soon.

But still…

“Th—… think it’ll wash out?”

His eyes had been closed, mouth slightly ajar in half-sleep. Lazily, his lids rise and he thinks on your contextless question a moment before he huffs out a smile, closing his eyes again and pulling you closer. “Animal furs are resilient. It will come clean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Konnorónhkhwa - I love you
> 
> Had Connor on the brain for a few days and decided he'd come out to play. I know I haven't been as vocal on this series as I have on others, but hey! Thanks for reading my big ol' experiment/practice attempt.


	5. Jacob Frye x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacob isn't a normal sort of gang leader. With only a pretty face, wicked blade, and sister at his side, he's turned an entire city of Blighters into Rooks. But that can't be all there is to it. Right?
> 
>  **Warnings:** Dubcon fantasy play (consent is voiced), rough sex, dirty talk, spanking, knifeplay (very brief, no blood) etc. (Jacob is not a nice man in this chapter.)
> 
> This work contains **audio files** for all you audiophiles via the Tumblr [AllSoundsAssCreed](http://allsoundsasscreed.tumblr.com). Open them in a new tab to not disrupt your reading experience.
> 
> Snagged the idea from [Axeman's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Axeman) lovely fic: [Pacify Me.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8036845)

[“Make a sound and it’ll be your last.”](http://allsoundsasscreed.tumblr.com/post/135652341962/make-a-sound-and-itll-be-your-last-jacob)

A sharpness at your back keeps you compliant in doing exactly that. Which is perfect, really. Just bloody perfect considering you still have a package to drop off and now with this incident just beginning, there’s no way you’ll make it to the drop off point in time. Business has to come later, it seems — the fellow at your back is twisting the pointed blade deeper at your spine to show his waning patience.

“Let’s get going, shall we? To the left there, if you please.”

Great, a _polite_ mugger.

Or at least you could hope he’s only a mugger. The area’s thick with thieves and lowlifes, making it a perfect place to hand off goods undetected. And, apparently, a perfect place to have those same goods taken from you. _Or worse._ Still, you move to where he indicates with slow steps, cradling your small package. If luck is on your side, maybe a fellow gang member or some Goody Two-shoes will see you plight and come to your aid.

“Good. That’s the way.” What hope there was fast fades along with sunlight as the two of you enter a darkened alley. The knife at your back lessens pressure the same time a gloved hand grips your wrist and twists your arm at you back. “Drop the box.”

Those words carry a heavy weight. With a purpose to them that will guide that blade into your neck without a second thought should you disobey directions. Still, you can scream at yourself mentally for what’s been a _royally fucked up_ job. It was supposed to be a simple package pickup and delivery. Get the goods, run the goods, deliver the goods. Safe and sound so you could be paid and on your way.

The box clatters to the ground.

“Kick it behind you.”

And rolls to the other side of the alley as you follow instructions.

“Perfect. Now, hands on the wall and hold still if you don’t mind.”

How couldn’t you mind? The job is botched, this man may very well _kill you_ once he gets what he’s after, and now you have to follow instructions to be still _and_ silent? Tension roils in your blood and you clench your fists at your sides. Judging by his gait and ease at keeping up with you, he’s taller. That grip on your arm isn’t anything to scoff at either, so he’s strong, too. He’s also willing to pull a knife on a woman in broad daylight, Blighter or not, so he’s brutal on top of all that.

 _Fuck._ This is bad.

But maybe… Maybe he isn’t that smart. A person rarely has everything going in their favor, after all. With a bit of finessing, this situation may be one where you can come out on top. You give a soft groan as he kicks your legs apart. The cue is missed, however, and he pats you down along the sides of your coat, fishing out your knife, wallet, pair of brass knuckles, and a pocket watch. Strangely, he doesn’t pocket the items. No, instead they flop to the ground the instant they hit his hands.

Is he looking for something? Sure, there’s not much in your wallet, but there _is_ something in there. And if it’s not money he’s after, then what else? A bit panicked, you make the same sound again and his hands stop as they pat down your thighs.

“Afraid you’ll have to wait for a glass of water.”

What in all fuck is _that_ supposed to mean? You groan again and clear your throat with much more vocal annoyance.

That does the trick.

Your assailant’s hands go from your thighs to your shoulders, whipping you around and slamming you back against the wall so hard you shut your eyes and wince at the pain. Once open, you see the blade that had been at your back before — only now you see it in full clarity. Poised on an elegant gauntlet attached to the arm of a man who needs no introduction.

“Need me to take care of that cough for you?” He makes a show of sheathing and unsheathing his blade. “Maybe a new windpipe will do the trick.”

Clenched hands unfurl at the trembling shock of it all. This man is no mugger. _He_ _’s the goddamned leader of the Rooks!_

You shake your head at his question. Nooo, thank you. No new windpipe today or ever. The one you have works just fine.

“Good. Easier to search a live body than a dead one.” The gauntlet lowers and his hands resume their search at the front of your body now, peeking into coat and vest pockets. Damned man is looking hard for something, but whatever could it be?

He huffs out a breath after he’s emptied you of all personal belongings, rolling his lower lip between his teeth in annoyance. Those hazel eyes roll their gaze to you. “Not a very clever operation you’ve been running.” Adding insult to injury isn’t above the means of the leader of the Rooks it seems. “Don’t happen to want to tell me where the rest of it is?”

Hadn’t he just told you to be silent? And it’s not as though you know, anyway. You don’t even get to know what’s in the damn packages you deliver! Spit and panic catch in your throat as you try to swallow, daring not to cough another time in his presence. “Wha—… the package is _right fucking there!_ ”

Is he so dense that he doesn’t remember his own instructions to have you kick it away?

“I know where _that_ package is. I’m talking about the rest.” He studies your face and stands at arm’s length. Far away enough to not be immediately terrifying, but close enough to prevent escape.

You release a held breath, holding up your hands to emphasize your surrender. “I don’t have anything else. I was only given the one box!”

“Come now, surely the boss of a drug cartel needs more than one box of opium to stay in business?” He chuckles to himself amusedly. “Just tell me what your plan is and I can make this quick and painle—”

 _You?_ A damned drug lord? And what’s this about a plan? You bunch your brows in disbelief, mouth opening slightly.

His sentence never finishes, completely squashed by a new train of thought. An annoyed groan in his chest sets him at biting his lip again and it’s unclear if that’s bad or _really bad_. “You’re the one who had the package. It wasn’t supposed to be delivered to you? Elizabeth Beetleton?”

“ _Me?_ Liza B. is my boss.” You sputter. _“_ I’m just a runner! I don’t get to know anything — I just do as I’m told!” Blighter or not, you’re so low on the totem pole you can’t see above ground. How could the so-called Rook leader have missed that?

Those lips roll out lowly muttered curses. Clearly, his plans have taken just as poor of a turn as yours. And it’s a damned good thing it has, too — serves him right, the callous ass. The frustration in his eyes could serve as a momentary distraction. If you avoided his bladed hand just so, perhaps you could make a run for it…

“A runner, you said? Impressive running anything on legs like yours.” You snap your gaze back to him as he glances down at your legs — perhaps gauging just how fleet of foot you are. What a rude comment. There may be other, faster runners in the Blighters — of course there were — but you still got your jobs done in time with the goods arriving safely. “So, you should know the pick up and drop off points in this part of the city? And more importantly where your boss is?”

_Oh. Well, shhhit._

That wasn’t exactly the message meant to be conveyed. Trying to prove your small fry status has only intrigued him further to make use of your talents and knowledge. He presses himself closer, blade held out to the side with a casual, albeit menacing, flick to sheath and unsheathe it. Those questioning eyes — God, they’re lovely — wait for an answer.

“I do?” No, no! You need to _prove_ your worth or he’ll kill you were you stand! “I mean, I do. I _definitely_ do.”

Hearing the answer he wants pulls a small smile from him, but he scoffs lightly. “I thought you Blighters were supposed to be made of stiffer stuff. You look like you’re about to piss yourself.”

It’s your turn to scoff. “Should I be dancing for joy when I’m about to die?” You bark back. Gang leader or not, it’s just cruel to tease a person before killing them.

“Well, given the information you have and my need to get at one of your bosses, how about I don’t kill you?”

A promise from a Rook is about as valuable as a penny made of stone. But how much is the word of their leader worth? It has to be enough to withstand any backlash you could suffer if you decided to betray the Blighters. For now, none of your gang ‘buddies’ know where you live, but if they find out you’re a snitch? That’ll be the end of you, and the Thames will welcome your corpse.

“Or I could kill you now.” Trailing your gaze down his arm to his face rewards you with that beaming smirk of his. Ever troublesome and self-assured. “But I’d prefer not to, if I’m being honest.”

You roll your eyes away from him to calm your nerves and affirm your mental image of him: dastardly, hazardous, and a menace to London who needs to be exterminated. This… this facade of his at showing compassion or mercy is just a ploy. Given the chance to use an enemy before killing them, he will take it. “Yes, I know the temptation to have someone else do your dirty work is too great.”

“Well, yes, there’s that.” A click of his blade sheathing catches your attention. It’s the steps he takes closer to you that make your eyes blow wide. He’s at it _again_ invading your personal space until he’s close enough to smell and block off the vision of the alley behind him. “You’re pretty tempting, too. Can’t fight back physically or run, so you bite out sarcasm. It’s…” He thinks on the word a moment and scoffs lightly. “Well, it’s _cute._ ”

Okay, that’s quite enough, thank you very much. The hands you have still raised in surrender move slowly, _very slowly_ , to his chest in a silent request for more space. There’s a fetching smile on his lips, but he acquiesces, thank goodness. Now with room to breathe and clear your thoughts, you stand. With your back quite literally against a wall, heart beating hard enough to feel in your head.

On one hand, you can betray the Blighters. Get this man what he’s after and… then what? Go into hiding? Be on the run from London’s worst gang? _Fuck._

And, on the other hand, you have death. Short, definite, but even if it is at the hands of a pretty face, it’s hardly satisfying.

“What’s it going to be, little runner?” He folds his arms across his chest and questioningly raises a brow.

For a moment, you avoid his gaze. Something about it is unsettling. Sets something off in your stomach you can’t quite pinpoint. Definitely different from the fear from earlier, but still incredibly uncomfortable. After that moment, you lick your dry lips and return his gaze. “Don’t suppose I’m cute enough to be let go?”

He snorts out a laugh and shakes his head. “ _Almost,_ but not quite. Maybe if you were wearing more green than red.”

Great. A reckless, murderous comedian. Exactly what London’s needed. Regardless of the danger, you aren’t exactly in the position to say no. “Are you going to let me go if I help you?”

“Don’t see why not.” That questioning stare shifts into a beam of mischievous delight when you extend your hand to shake. That same gauntleted hand — the one that had, mere minutes ago, threatened to take your life — grasps yours firmly to seal his word. “Can’t promise you’ll want to leave when we’re through, though.”

Doubtful. But still, what a curious thing for him to say. Pinpricks of fight-or-flight tingle at your neck — especially when he twists your arm at your back and marches you forward again.

“Ow! _Ow, ow, ow!_ This again? I thought we were partnered!”

“We are, little runner.” The two of you move out of the alley and toward the street, and a conveniently unattended cab catches his eye mere seconds before you’re thrown into it. It’s a hard landing, but you’re up on your feet and in the seat just as he pokes in through the viewing window. “Hand. Gimmie.”

“I — what for?” You attempt to ask, but the friendly expression on his face changes to an impatient one. “Okay, okay! Jeez.”

Snaps and clicks of metal with a chill on your wrist find you handcuffed to the inner holding rail of the cab. Uncomfortable for sure, but it beats bleeding to death in an alley any day.

“Just a precaution,” he soothes. “Can’t have you running off when I’m killing your mates. Now, where’s our first stop?” Delight flickers behind his eyes. Truly, he’s a madman out for blood.

 _Our_ stop, as he calls it, isn’t far. But these cuffs are a bit tight — too tight — and your arm is already feeling drained of blood from its elevation above your heart. “It’s — ah, should be two streets down from here and near the market. On the corner with that old dress shop.”

“The ones with those ridiculous fans in the window?”

“That’s the one.”

He gives a raucous laugh and takes up the driver’s seat up front. “Good, good. I’m already liking where this is going.”

Two clicks of his tongue and a snap of the reins set the cab in a racing speed down the street. And, sure enough, two streets later on the market corner near the dress shop, there was a Blighter with a few others inspecting a package in a dim alley. Not that the Rook needed to tell you, but even before his suggestion to stay out of sight, you were ducking back behind the door of the cab. The less people who saw you in his company, the better.

And, for the sake of your well-being, the less you see of his handiwork, the better off you are.

Whatever the man did, it was loud. Grunting, yelling, threats, and a gunshot or two were followed by silence. Such a long stretch of silence that you were almost tempted to peek. Almost. A small box being tossed in the window would have clocked you right in the face if you had. He pops his head in, resting folded arms on the viewport sill and smiling — just a bit breathless and disheveled. Like a damned child who’s just come inside after an afternoon of playing.

“Where to next?”

There’s no way he should be standing, let alone happy and looking for more. Had he _really_ taken on that whole group of Blighters on his own? Without the police seeing? Shitty neighborhood aside, there’s usually at least one or two of them patrolling. Though, knowing them, they probably turned tail as soon as the gunfire started. It’s impressive in a strange sort of way. Your captor knows how to hold his own, you’ll give him that. It makes you all the more thankful you hadn’t decided to fight at the first opportunity. You would have been crushed before you could draw your knife.

  
But let’s see him keep up after another group of Blighters take him on.

You jerk your head to the side, pointing headlong to the north. “The other stop’s a bit further. Know that old abandoned church?”

“Which? The one with the— the uh…” He makes fake jaws with his hands, gnashing his finger-teeth together. “The pointy-toothed things with the weird tits out front?”

It takes everything you have to bite back a laugh. And through a snicker, you answer him. “No, no, the other one.” You flex your free arm. “With the _really_ buff gargoyles covered in pigeon shit.”

He chuckles deeply and adjusts his hair under his cap, nodding. “Excellent. Hold tight and we’ll be there soon.”

The cab shakes again with the weight of the Rook taking the reins. And the same moment the cab takes off, a stark realization keeps you from holding on to the rail. You teeter off balance with the metal cuff digging painfully into your wrist, cursing yourself mentally.

 _Did you just have a laugh with a Rook?_ Their damned leader at that? Right after he’s done in a half dozen people you called partners that very morning?

Well, not partners exactly. Affiliates, maybe? …acquaintances?

It’s a curious thought, and it’s one that hasn’t been given much thought until now. The Blighters don’t exactly take care of you — they’re hardly family or friends. And with your incredibly green status, they rarely pay you any attention except to bombard you with work to do. It’s always the dirty work, too: run this, carry that, clean those. Matter of fact, one of the people the Rook had done in was a knob-headed fellow who only last week had you cleaning his shoes like he owned you.

Because of his status within the Blighters, he could. But now? Well, he’s either dead or wishes he was. And that’s not so bad.

The little twinges of guilt prickling at your throat fade a little more as your cabby guides you through the city, a bit dangerously with how fast he’s going, but in a manner that’s so infectiously thrill-seeking. You can catch glimpses of his smile through the front viewport as he [encourages the horse](http://allsoundsasscreed.tumblr.com/post/134995690952/whos-a-good-horse-you-are-jacob-frye) on. And damn if that’s not the single [cutest](http://allsoundsasscreed.tumblr.com/post/139997256492/atta-girl-jacob-frye) thing a Rook leader — or _any_ gang leader — has ever done.

The second location goes off without a hitch, shit-covered gargoyles and all. As does the third, fourth, and fifth.

The sixth one looks a fair bit trickier with the sunlight in town fading fast, but this eerily skilled man shows no hesitation. Darkness covering his movement only seems to help him more than hurt him. It’s a shame the bond he forms with his dark cover dissolves the moment he sets his hands on his prize a few steps away from the man he just knocked out. A patrolling Blighter, just as green as you are, stammers until he finds his voice and raises the alarm.

That’s about the time you hear his rapid bootsteps toward the carriage. No pleasantries this time — the last box goes sailing through the viewing window with stray bullets following after.

“Finally slipped up, did you?” The Rook ignores your taunt as he takes up the reins, slapping them hard to take off careening down the street. Looks like he isn’t a master of everything, after all. A zip of a sound shoots past your ear, revealing a brand new bullet hole. A hole that’s far too close to be comfortable and wipes all smug thoughts from your mind. Blighter status be damned, you’re not looking for any new injuries tonight. “Oi! Maybe, uh, maybe go _faster_ yeah?!”

“ _I am!_ ” He roars out. “Just shut up and hang on!”

Gunfire rings out closer than ever and the sight of a cab gaining speed sets your heart pounding. “The left!! Hey, asshole, on the _left!_ ”

“Yes, I can _see_ that, thank you!” What a time to be snotty when he’s getting shot at by a cart full of Blighters. The front end of the cab hits something solid — and crashes right through it splintering wood and debris into the viewport. Poor lamp post didn’t stand a chance, and neither do you as you struggle to stay upright in the cabin.

“Yeah, you say that, but can you see the goddamned _road?!_ ”

“Blighters or road, take your pick! Can’t watch both!”

“I’ll take whate—” Another crash into something solid snaps your teeth against your tongue. Hand at your mouth, the beginnings of a coppery taste forms. Great. Just great. “ _Augh!_ Just don’t get me killed!” Your newly-formed lisp hardly sounds threatening, but it gets the message across.

“All right, you asked for it!” The cab veers to the right, swaying you inside before it jolts to the left. Wood splinters against wood, wheels grate and bump against each other alongside the distressed sounds of one _very_ unhappy horse ring out. A horrific whinnying _thud_ and _crash._ And then… silence.

As silent as a damaged, wobbling, clip-clopping cab can be. You brave a glance out the rear viewport. And left behind, caked in mud, compost, and lord knows what else, lies the toppled-over carriage with a mess of Blighters trying to exit a smelly, decaying mound of waste. Hah, the gobshite pulled it off!

Speaking of, he pokes his head near the front viewport as the cab rolls along. “Still in one piece back there? Didn’t die on me, did you?”

“I’ll manage.” Apt words for someone pulling themselves off the floor. The numbness in your arm is starting to kill, but aside from that, there are no new wounds on your body. Thank Christ.

A short, almost pleasant, ride later and the cab slows to a stop. Drug-filled boxes collected in the floor of the cabin are kicked aside as the door opens and your captor beams another smirk at you. As though to say: _You thought I couldn_ _’t, but I did. Look at you, all worried over nothing_.

It’s insufferably smug, but you’ll take that over bullets flying your way anytime. “Next time, let the horse drive and you pull us along, yeah?”

“Oh, no. The ride wasn’t smooth? Weren’t you comfortable?” Half-mocking tone aside, he looks you over briefly for damage.

“As a caged bird.” You say as he begins to unlock the cuffs binding you inside this wrecked mess.

A brief smile lights up his face in the dark as he gently rubs your reddened your wrist and helps you down from the cab. “Ah. So, you’re eager to fly, then? Can’t have that.” And again, all too suddenly, your arm is twisted behind your back with the press of a familiar blade on your spine.

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. _This isn_ _’t part of the deal!_ He gave his word! He shook on it! He —…

A sourness crowds your shoulders, threatening angry tears at the corners of your eyes.

He’s still a damned _Rook_ and you fell for his trap. Hook, line, sinker.

“Aw, don’t make that face.” Aimless and angry steps can’t stop him from guiding you along and he certainly can’t stop you from voicing your thoughts.

“You’re a right bastard, you know that?” The words are thick with distaste, but the sound only has him poking harder at your back. You shout back even louder, voice echoing off the walls of yet another alleyway. “You’re a damned lousy, lying _bastard!_ Is that the way the Rooks handle business? Just the same as the Blighters you would call your lessers? _Hypocrite!_ ”

“Wouldn’t quite say that.” One unceremonious shove later and you’re face-to-wall for the second time today with a Rook at your back. “You know the routine. Hands up on the wall.”

The wall’s cold from lack of sun and the cool evening air and the chill it sends through you is unwelcome and sobering. Congratulations on not only walking straight into death, but also granting your murderer with a cache of very expensive drugs before your departure from the realm of the living. Just as you open your mouth to speak, you hear him take a long breath.

“I wasn’t able to get a good look earlier today, but I must say you have a fantastic rear. Is it from all the running?”

“Would you stop playing your foolish games and get on with it already? Death is better than another minute of your nonsense.” That’s a lie. If it were possible to stall him all night, you would.

He scoffs, voice distorted with a smile. “ _Kill_ you? Really?”

“Yes, really, you insufferable oaf. I know what you’re plotting.”

“Do you? Much as I’d love to know what you’re thinking, I have something else in mind.” Tension snaps to life in your shoulders and you flinch when you hear him approach, readying yourself for a jolt of pain. But there’s only warmth. Breathy and hot against your ear. “Join my gang.”

The tension in your spine drops, flops around, and repositions itself in your hands, coiling tight. All day long he’s been toying with you, using you, testing you, teasing you. And now he wants to be your goddamned boss? You turn on your heel and see the taller Rook face to face, up close with all his smirking grandeur.

“What is wrong with your head? You—you do this on purpose, don’t you? Scare people out of their wits to get what you want and then—then—”

“Take them on an adventure?”

What? _Adventure?_ More like a —

“I treated you as civilly as I could considering you’re still a _Blighter_.” He begins counting on gloved fingers. “Refrained from kill any of your partners, who — let’s face it — never did anything for you anyway. Kept you safe while I kicked the snot out of them. Gave you lunch, laughs, and a ludicrously good time.”

He thinks a moment, holding up four fingers.

“Did I miss anything?” He winces when you pull at his thumb and bend it out farther than needed. “Ow! _Ow, ow, ow!_ Christ, would you let g—”

“ _Yes_ , you missed something. You threatened me — multiple times! Held me at knifepoint multiple times! And endangered my life! _Multiple! Times!_ ” Handcuffs and blades can’t possibly convey trust or be his idea of a good time. Even if he had done a few nice things and had been tolerable company, so what? He still held you captive for practically the whole day!

And yet now, even as you hold his thumb, he hardly looks as menacing as he had when he first led you away from your drop off. Thinking back on it, he’s been getting peculiarly softer and less — well, _scary_ — with each new package pickup. His blade would have been sunk into your neck if you had tried anything even remotely like this on him earlier. …wouldn’t it?

You release his thumb and he waggles his hand back and forth to relieve the pain. “Ah, must have been my mistake.”

You bunch your brows. “What was?”

“Could have sworn you were into that stuff. Danger, wild rides, rough treatment. Feeling helpless and vulnerable.” He winks at your open-mouthed expression. “Can’t say I’m judging, but what else could I think when you were the one making those sounds?”

Absolutely ludicrous. This has to be another game of his. What could there possibly be to like about being handcuffed and carted off and — Wait, sounds?

You clasp a hand over your mouth and look away. _Those groans from earlier for permission to speak_ — had he actually confused them for sounds of pleasure?

“And the way you looked so faint after I called you cute, too. Was I mistaken or…” He cants his head curiously, inquisitively. While realization and mortification dawn on your face, he slides closer. “Or was I not far from the mark?”

Obviously, he’s not even close to being correct. Completely off-course. Practically on another continent! But if that’s the case, why is your heart still thrumming so quickly against your chest? The man is… _attractive_ in a way. In a ridiculous ‘I usually get what I want’ manner. And what of that nonsense he was spouting before — of being the kind of person who likes feeling trapped and weak and…

 _Jesus_ , did you actually enjoy being his prisoner today?

Hazel orbs are still eying you with careful consideration while you process your thoughts. It’s a lot to consider — too much even under the watchful gaze of someone who’s essentially a complete stranger. You glance at him and quickly look away. How is it that such a strange man may have exposed a part of yourself to you that even _you_ weren’t aware of?

“Not going to be pushy about it. Unless you want me to be.” He says softly. A soft chuckle and a gentle stroke of your still-clenched hand make you look up. His blade-free hand brings your bare knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss. If you hadn’t personally seen him being a cad today, you could have called it gentlemanly. “You can leave if you want, little runner. I’ve stolen enough of your time, but I admit I want more.”

That pet name again. He’s been calling you that all day now. Though, it’s somewhat fair since you’ve addressed him only as ‘Rook’ or ‘Asshole’. But now the man’s offering you what you’ve been seeking all day — a chance to get the hell away from him. Away from his threats, that damned glove-blade, and his insufferable teasing. The legs under you have always carried you away from detected danger, but now they’re still. Locked in place and beginning to feel so _weak_.

“…more?” You ask. He nods, kissing at your knuckle and back of your hand. More of you could mean anything. More milking you for information, more fueling your frustration, more… well, more of this burning touch on your skin. “More of me?”

Your heart skids through a beat or two when he delicately takes the tip of your middle finger between his lips for a gentle suck to the first bend. “That’s right. Should warn you, though. I’ve been thinking of treating you roughly since I first heard your smart mouth. I won’t have anything less.”

A fully involuntary shiver rocks you to your core. Rough treatment? Right here in a skeevy alley? “Is this really the best place?”

He nods again and captures your index finger, sucking down to the second bend. Vibrating hums almost cause you to lose balance. “Mmmhm. Sets the scene. A big bad Rook cornering a powerless little Blighter.”

It’s hardly an arousing location. Dark and dank and closed off from public view — a perfect place to take advantage of someone without being seen. Your aggressor, though, seems to be asking for permission. What an odd man. He nips gently at your finger and releases it, walking a step closer to press your back into the brick wall. “My patience is up, runner. What’s it going to be? Run? Take your pleasure and then run? Or maybe you want to see me more often — have me as your new boss?”

The unmistakable press of his erection at your thigh steals the words from your mouth. Through struggling breaths you answer. “H-how rough?”

“As rough as you want.” He replies quickly. Someone’s awfully eager to proceed. “Want a sample?”

That toothy smirk of his breaks before you even answer. The second you nod your consent, his mouth and hands are on you. Mouth at your lips pressing gently while his hands roughly hike your shirt out of your trousers. The feeling of worn leather on your skin is strange in the cool night air. It’s textured and warm — like hands, but not quite. His fingers stray to your hips and pull you close to him as he grinds the hardness of his arousal into you, showing you the exact effect you have on him. It lasts for only a few seconds though before he breaks his kiss and turns you forcefully toward the wall.

“It doesn’t make your heart beat a little faster when I turn you like this? Get rough like this?” The warmth of him presses into your back, meeting flushly with you from rear to head. “Treat you like a _Blighter_ like this?”

Faster heartbeat? Check. Stomach doing flips? Also, check. Thighs clenching and mind spinning at the thought that this man might be entirely right? _Check, check, check._

You flatten your palms against the brick surface to steady yourself. Hard to believe something so… so strange can be so arousing, but you can feel it starting now. Low and softly building. A desire in your core. A thrill that spikes at the danger of him. The danger of this reckless Rook. You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “What’s your name?”

“You mean you don’t know?” He chuckles near your ear and the ghost of his breath on your skin makes you shiver. “My flighty little Blighter hasn’t been doing her homework. Don’t the others say my name? Curse it in every meeting?”

It _should_ be something you know. Even with his hands removing your coat to toss onto a crate, you should be able to say it. Darkness fogs your vision as your eyes flutter closed. “I — ahn, I’m not sure.”

“What have I been to you this whole time? Just another Rook?”

The sharp, cold tinge of steel tickles at your tailbone. You shake your head at his question.

“No? Then you _must_ know who I am?”

You nod, asking yourself faintly why something this dangerous should be making you so wet. Why on earth you’re so eager to see just what he’ll do next.

“Good, but not good enough.” The soft flesh of your earlobe receives a soft lick and bite. And his words pierce your mind, making you dizzy with need. “You’ve had your sample, runner. If you want more, you need to put my name on your lips.”

 _Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck._ You huff air out of your nose and try to remember, to concentrate on what the hell his damned name is. And of course he does not make the task easy on you. His blade stays put, teasing a threat along your skin while his free hand holds you in place. Just perfectly enough to grind himself into the softness of your rear.

“Tick tock, little runner. Running out of time.” He sucks at your earlobe again, trailing down to coat your neck in suckling bites.

What the _hell_ is his name? You know he has a sister — some kind of weird sibling gang leadership. They’ve slowly been taking over all the boroughs in the city, much to Starrick’s dismay. But what’s the name!

“ _Ahn,_ ” he groans needily into your ear, grinding especially hard against you and shuddering. “Can’t work for me if you can’t even remember my name. Last chance.”

Wanted posters! You used to see them around town. They practically littered every corner, every page of the paper until — somewhat mysteriously — they stopped being put up. The visage of one enters your mind and you can read it as clear as day.

“Jac—Jacob Frye.” The words fall from your lips the same instant a throaty chuckle escapes from him.

“That’s right. But from now on you can call me _boss_. Got that?” The blade traces upward, slow and steady with the gentle sound of fabric being sliced away from base to collar to reveal your back to the cool air. You nod at his question and he rewards you with the warmth of his lips on your bare skin. “Good. And do you know what I want, little runner?”

You could venture a guess. Another reward like that would send you over the moon. But you shake your head just the same.

“I want you to scream my name tonight.” His spoken desire is breathy, _hot_ against your skin. “You’re going to do that for me. Boss’s orders.”

He hooks his fingers into your trousers and pulls them down to your thighs to admire your underwear for a moment or two until they are cut away as well. Two flicks on either side of the waistband and he pulls them from you.

“Look at this. A Blighter getting sopping wet for a Rook? Ah, excuse me, _ex-Blighter._ ” He runs his gloved hands down the curve of your spine and over your rear, squeezing at your exposed cheeks and planting dual-slaps on either side. The affection he’s felt toward your ass has been no exaggeration. Again and again he strikes with leather-coated slaps, punctuating the air with loud cracks, until your flesh is reddened and stinging and you’re biting your lips not to cry out.

Finally, he breaks in his treatment and opts for running his palms over each aching mound. Heavy puffs of exertion come from both of you, but he pulls a whimper from you when his right hand trails around your hip to your public mound to run his fingertips against your wet entrance.

“What’s my name, runner?”

“Jac— _Boss._ ” You correct yourself just in time, his hand had begun to move away but now stays in place to find your clit and bury his fingers between your folds.

“Such a clever thing. Tell me, clever girl. Do you want more?”

Nothing too difficult to handle up to now. The spanking was a little odd, but the residual pain lingering in your rear only begs for more, not less. “Yes, please.”

The continuous grinding of his clothed cock at your rear halts. The hold on your hip tightens. “Such a polite, mewling request. A little pleasure already tamed you?”

How to even answer that question? Are you tamed? Maybe. But are you _satisfied?_ Not even close. You shake your head, and jut your rear into his groin forcing him to grind back suddenly.

He hisses breath in through his teeth. “There’s that spark. _That fire._ ” Fingers wiggling between your lips curl faster, gathering up all the lubrication they can seconds before his middle digit thrusts into you. Among the sounds of breath and avid fingering, your nails claw at the wall, skittering across the porous surface while you suffer his assault. His lust is palpable from his tone alone. “Fuck, you feel so ready for me.”

Ready is an understatement. Without the guidance of his hand at your hip, you would have long ago lost balance or fallen to your knees. The strength of his hand keeps you in place, though, refusing to let go until it’s time. A strength that’s tested when he adds a second finger to the first, stretching you and splaying you with the ridges of leather stimulating your clenching pussy. In and out, dragging against your walls, twisting along your sensitive bits until you call out.

Purred words of encouragement tickle your spine along with his kisses, edging upward from your shoulderblades to your neck. Meanwhile, your needy tunnel is abandoned and his fingers find your lips before you can protest. Sticky and wet smears of your arousal touch your lips for the briefest second. Then his fingers pry at your lips, delving deep inside to coat your tongue with tastes of leather and liquid arousal. Such a filthy man — and you’re just as filthy as you suck his digits clean.

“So hungry for it… Beautiful.” Shallow thrusts of his fingers cause a momentary gag, but you recover quickly as the oral thrusts deepen and quicken, virtually fucking your sweet tongue and lips with twin fingers just the same as he’d done to your cunt. The sight of it snaps something within him, some frail tether of resolve and patience. He yanks his fingers free, wet hand clenching your jaw with uncomfortable pressure to turn your head just far enough to kiss.

The kiss burns just as hot as the rest of him. As hot as his touch and his breath, ghosting over your lips and body in ways that sing of danger and rapidly approaching pleasure. To think the leader of the Rooks could come undone at your skills just as easily as you fumble under his. The hand that had been clenching to your hip releases its bruising hold to quickly undo his belt. It’s hard to sneak a look at this angle, especially turned this way in such a dark alley, but from what you can see, there’s a bit of bragging rights tucked between the Rook’s legs.

He parts the kiss for air, both of you panting. “Who’s your leader?”

“You are,” the answer is instant, breathless.

“Who do you work for?” A circling thumbtip coats his precum over his cock. The hand strokes against your opening for more slick to comfortably fist himself. It’s an audible aphrodisiac that sets your jaw trembling. This man towering over you, pumping himself and carrying on this imposing, kinky act is ready to take you for a ride. Ready to make you a _Rook_.

Over your shoulder, you bite at your lip, hips angled just so. “You. I work for you, boss.”

“Damn right.” He growls out, meeting your hips and lips with a fierce thrust and kiss. Excitement washes through your skin at the feel of him spreading you open. Gently, at first to get the angle just right. Sawing back and forth to tease you into pushing back against him. And the moment your defenses waver, he thrusts, filling you with the full length of himself from throbbing base to leaking tip. Twinned groans come from both of you, clashing into each others mouths just the same as your tongues and teeth do. “You won’t be doing any running when I’m through.”

The kinky promise is almost a threat that prickles across your skin, melding into your blood, and striking you at your core with pleasured pressure rising. With a groan, he releases your lips through one last kiss and adjusts your hips against him for a proper fucking. Mixing shallow thrusts with deep ones. Rapid snaps of his waist with slow ones. Grinding the length of his cock across the throbbing walls of your cunt until you’re shivering under his touch.

“ _F—Fffuck_ me like this and I’ll be running just fine, boss.”

“Cute.” He says with a throaty laugh. “If you want it harder, you’ll have to beg.”

Begging? That’s a new one. The Rook clearly likes being in power, but to think he would want you to plead for your mutual satisfaction. Instead, you grind yourself against him, clenching hard enough to force a choked gasp from him. He wasn’t expecting that — but he finds his focus and that same gloved hand that had teased your mouth before latches onto your throat. Firmly, securely. Hard enough for blood to build pressure and an instinctual fight-or-flight sensation within you, but light enough for more than enough airflow. The perfect tightness for only the briefest sense of danger from him.

It sets the sex-hungry core within you to an even higher heat.

“Your boss told you to _beg,_ little Rook.” He gives a soft squeeze and your eyes flare as the pressure holds for a split second and releases back to its former hold. Slowly, his hips still against you and he plants a soft kiss at your neck, voice rumbling with barely-concealed desire. “I’m waiting.”

“Please,” it’s hard to swallow, but you can still speak. “Please, fuck me.”

“Already doing that. Tell me _how_ you want me to fuck you.”

Good question. Up until a few seconds ago, you hadn’t even known that pressure on your neck could feel so oddly exciting. You swallow and try again. “Against the wall. Hard. Until I can’t stand anymore. Please, boss, I need you.”

Rolling hips set themselves into motion, fucking you on his cock again to build the friction you’ve come to crave. But this is good — thrusting is good and you’re doing something correctly that pleases him. “What a tame request. There’s dirtier things in that head of yours. Tell me.”

There is something else. An embarrassing something that’s a bit dirtier than you feel prepared to ask. And yet…

“Will you talk dirty to me, boss?” The hand on your neck slacks for a split second. _He_ _’s listening_. “Please? Fuck me raw and tell me all the things you’ll do to me now that I’m a Rook. I need it. I need you.”

The sharp exhale on the back of your neck cinches it — the Rook’s deeply aroused at the thought of corrupting a helpless little Blighter. At the idea of using you so roughly that you’d happily switch sides just to have a chance of a taste of him again.

“Sure, since you asked so nicely…” The hand on your hip drags its fingertips across your skin to settle on your sopping wet cunt and finger at your stiff nub. “But you’ll have to prove you deserve it.”

You wiggle your hips against him to vary the angle of his thrusting hips. “Of—of course. Tell me what to do, boss. Anything, please, I’ll do anything.”

“ _Fffuck_ , aren’t you good at this.” Aha, so the Rook is the first to break ‘character’ and speak his praise toward you. No matter; he resumes his facade as rough Rook leader and humps brutally into you enough to make your ass shake. Twice, thrice, until you whimper under him. “You want it, little runner? Take it. Finish yourself. Finish me.”

His hips stop and the signal is set. Your new leader will supply the filthy words while you are tasked with milking his cock dry and fucking yourself silly. A softly moaned ‘yes, sir’ falls from your lips and he rewards you with quick, firm rubs against your clit. Just in time to make your legs wobble when you thrust back against him. Slowly at first until you find your footing and proper angle. And then faster, much harder until your breasts jiggle from the impact.

“You have no idea how good your cunt looks full of my cock.” The compliment is delivered through his gritted teeth. He’s getting close and the erotic sight of you bouncing on his dick is only burning his fuse faster. A hard bite on your neck has you gasping out — he’s trying to knock the focus from you — but you redouble your efforts, swirling your hips as you ride him now. “Such a filthy thing fucking yourself on me like this. You’ve only known me for a day and look at you.”

Has he already forgotten that it had only taken a few moans early in the morning to have him thinking about you all day long? You swallow against the hand on your throat, breaths coming in a bit more labored now that you’re the one doing most of the work. Both hands remain unrelenting; one holding your head in place by the neck while the other rolls slick fingertips over your bundle of pleasured nerves.

“You want it badly, don’t you? To cum all over my cock and make a mess of yourself?”

You nod against his hand and groan.

“Can’t quite hear you,” he says with his fingers now drumming against your mound. “Got something filthy to say for me?”

“I want it. I wanna cum.” The constant motion and angle haven’t tired out your hips exactly. Running as often as you do, you’re used to moving your hips quite a bit. But even with the dirty talk and hand at your throat and fingers on your pussy… you need more. You need your boss’s touch. A finishing touch to reach the peak of mutual delight. “Please, boss.”

He huffs a breath.

“ _Jacob_ , please. I’m begging. It’s—it’s not enough…!”

And he sucks in another inhale. Both hands leave your body to steady in their familiar hold on your hips, guiding you into the blinding pace of his hips thrusting against you. Fast and deep, every impact pulling a hiccuping groan from you that leaves your lips in a trail that gets louder, higher in pitch. Time and time again his cock leaves you full then empty, full then empty. To sate your own need and drive you over the edge, you rub tight circles at your tightening cunt, feeling so close. So damned close.

“Cum for me.”

The demand sends undulating shockwaves through you, and — from the way he groans out — he can feel them. Cursing under his breath and trying to fuck himself as deeply into you as he can, he can feel your pleasure peaking. So close, but not quite there. His hand wraps tightly in your hair, pulling gently enough to prevent pain, but hard enough to contort your spine and cry out in pleasured bliss.

“I said cum for me, little Rook. _That_ _’s an order._ ”

Another jut of his hips spells your end, thighs tensing when the first wave crashes through you. Hips refuse to hold still and you thrust against him through the second and third wave, needing more of him, needing to be full. Needing that delicious friction and power that he lords over you so effortlessly. It’s the perfect final test of his stamina — he breaks. Groaning obscenities and clenching your hair harder than he intends, he spills himself inside you, spurts of hot cum filling just as your own pleasured throbs begin to subside.

It’s blissful. _Filthy_. And with bubbly-eyed vision, you’re already wondering how soon this can happen again.

Soft panting breaths paint your skin and fill the alleyway. The sounds of two bodies shrouded in darkness having finally reached completion. And yet your Rook captor holds his hips taut against you. The hold on your hair has lessened and his other hand almost affectionately strokes at your hip and ass.

“Fuck’s sake, you took to that quicker than I thought.”

You chance a soft laugh, and yep. Sure enough your throat is a little sore.

“Ah, maybe I should have waited for that part.” He chuckles into your neck as your shake your head dismissively. Of the parts of you that are sore, it’s not just your throat. True to his promise, you feel thoroughly fucked from head to toe. Any place his hands, mouth, and cock have touched now single a pleasant aftersong of rough loving. Surely, your hips have hand-sized bruises; your neck, shoulders, and back have teethmarks and hickeys galore; and your pussy is feeling entirely satisfied.

“Easy there.” He muses softly, lips still rubbing against your skin as he slowly pulls himself from you. It’s audibly loud, wet and sticky. Once he releases, you both share a soft groan — him from the coolness of the air on his softening cock, and you from the feeling of being deliciously full to regrettably empty. He holds your hips until you find the strength to stand. Still a bit wobbly, you nod when he asks you if you’re okay. Yes, just pleasantly fucked out of your mind by a gang leader. Nothing at all unusual or unsavory. “Wasn’t too rough on you, was I?”

You rub your throat a little before answering. “No, I—I’m fine I just had no idea that… that sort of _stuff_ even existed.”

Curious brows raise high at your admission. “Oh? I can show you more. Later on — if you wanted to be a Rook.”

You smile and laugh mentally, voicing only a soft scoff. If this is his manner of recruitment, it’s a wonder every person in London isn’t already serving under him.

The man seems to mistake your moments to compose yourself as hesitation — which causes him to hesitate in turn. “Well, I mean — listen, that stuff I said back there — it was just, you know, _in the moment._ You don’t have to actually join my gang unless you want to.”

Clearly, he wants you there. In his gang. At his side. In his bed. Wherever. Finding a reason to say no is pretty difficult at the moment. You clear your throat and find your voice instead. “Can I have a night to think it over? I’m definitely not a Blighter anymore, but —” You cough at some soreness. “But not sure if the gang life is for me what with such high demands and all.”

An amiable chuckle rumbles from him and he nods. “I don’t give Rooks special treatment, but we can talk it over.”

Another softly shared laugh and then he helps you with your clothes. Pants first, pulling them taut against your sex. Close enough to feel the aftermath of your combined efforts between your legs. If you had to guess, he _enjoyed_ the look of your mild discomfort. A guess that’s only confirmed when he tugs them against you again. It’s when he gets to your shirt that he realizes an issue.

“Ah.”

It’s torn clearly down the back with nothing holding it together except the shirt buttons on the front. Ah, indeed. “Well. Can’t go home in that.”

Actually, now that you think about it, going home isn’t the best idea if all of the Blighter drop points in town have been attacked. The first thing the higher-ups would do is go looking for the runners or anyone else who could tip them off to their once-secret locations. _Shit_.

Before you can think it over much longer, the weight of a coat graces your shoulders. Warm, thick, and heavy enough to fight the chill of the night.

“Can’t have you wearing those old colors anyway. Green will suit you much better, you’ll see.” The Rook’s gotten himself in order just in time to help you into his jacket and button you up snugly inside.

“I still haven’t joined your gang, you know.” The walk back to the cab is a short one, but along the way you don’t give a second thought to your abandoned red shirt and blazer. “Maybe green doesn’t look good on me.”

“We’ve got until morning to find out.”

“We?”

“That’s what I said.” He reassures, helping you into the cab and closing the door. “Can’t have a lady going home alone at night. Don’t you know there’s dangerous gang members prowling about?”

If you could hide yourself from rolling your eyes, you would, because that laugh of his that follows is awfully infectious. “You suggesting I stay the night with you?”

“Oh, I’m insisting. I know a hotel not too far from here. Beds are comfortable. Bath provided. Walls are _thick_.”

“Do you take all of your Rooks to hotels to do… what exactly?”

“Well, I was thinking about sleeping.” He notes the amused expression on your face. “But if you had a craving for more, I have more tricks I could show you.”

This cheeky bastard. You roll your tongue on the inside of your cheek before biting down gently. This is a terrible idea. The whole day has been nothing but an endless sequence of bad ideas. And now you’re sitting, freshly fucked and exhausted, in front of your enemy — or is he a soon-to-be ally? He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, waiting for your answer and you scoff, sitting back against the seat.

“Lead the way, boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a discussion about Jacob one night and some of the -- well, messed up stuff he's done. Definitely a good guy deep down, but also a guy who enjoys havoc and fighting and murdering bad guys. It's a little messed up.
> 
> This was a wild turn for me. Something out of the box and new that I haven't gotten to experiment with much. Let me know how it is! It's okay to call it awful because let's face it, I can always improve. Feedback's welcome on my Tumblr as well: darkchocolatepleasecake.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks much for reading!


	6. Julien du Casse x Reader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mercenary who aims at becoming a Templar, Julien du Casse is a man of many talents. Those talents include getting himself into trouble.
> 
>  **Warnings:** None. Straight up smut with backstory.
> 
> [The lovely [Kebeo](kebeo.tumblr.com) of Tumblr knows their French and checked the translations for others to enjoy! Thanks so much!]

Sweat drips off your brow in the summertime blaze. It’s an unbearable heat and hardly fitting weather to be outside — let alone exist — in. But, as usual, duty calls. There’s the passing of the occasional blessed breeze that has your body praising the relief and your mind cursing to calculate your shot in the wind. Just a hint of a crossbreeze shouldn’t hurt, right? It’s so hard to think clearly in all this _damned_ heat. Even the practice dummies look ready to melt.

A bead of sweat rolls down the side of your temple. Another follows pace but detours to your eyebrow, bunching in the hairs as you squint an eye closed and try again.

Steady. Breathe. Careful of the breeze. Damned sweat is slipping down your closed eyelid. Ignore it.

Line up your shot. Focus. Breathe. Hold that breath. Aaaaand. _Fire._

A clip of dirt fires up in the distance. Shit.

The grating sound of a tsking tongue calls behind you. _Again._ What is that, the fourth time now? It’s gotten to the point now that he’s doing it before you even have a chance to think about reloading. “You are supposed to hit the _target_ , my dear.”

“Yes.” You bite back your overly harsh tone. Usually his playful tendencies are tolerable, almost enjoyable. But this damned heat is getting to you, and his mannerisms are only making it worse. “I know, Julien. Give me some space and I might be able to land a shot. Too hot to be having you so close to me.”

Today’s practice involves musket shooting. After missing a few — well, more than a few — shots while standing, you had instead opted to shoot while lying down and propping the musket barrel on bags of feed. Even with the steadier surface, you’ve yet to land a hit. And Julien has since gobbled up the opportunity to observe your embarrassment. Doesn’t look as though he intends to correct your errors or offer his advice. No, for now he’s entirely content with prodding you in soft jests.

If you were a humbler person, perhaps there would be a question spoken towards the man as he looms over you. Having the man’s guidance instead of his goading would be a blessing now, but you haven’t reached your rank within the Templars for your humility. The jolt of dirt and billowing plume of dirt from your missed shot dissipates as you analyze the situation. The weight of the weapon is fine. No odd sounds or tremors when firing. No blown out pieces. Nothing seems the matter, but something is clearly _off._

You jolt when the heated purr of his voice hits your ear.

“Your aim is not as true as yesterday. Would a blunderbuss better suit you?” He says with such lowly murmured intent that knocks you from of your thoughts and bids your sour tone to return.

“My aim would be fine were I allowed to focus, mercenary.”

“ _Julien_.” He reminds. No matter how many times you may call him by the title of his occupation, he prefers a gentler sort of familiarity. “I can see that you are trying — and I see what a poor job you are doing to be so offset by a simple distraction.”

Pinpricks of offense creep up your spine as you still lie flat with the musket tucked aside. Just what is he trying to say? Nothing about Julien could be described as small. Voice, ego, ability. All of them are tremendous. He notes your irritated confusion and offers back a roguish smile.

“Ah, you look at me in such a way, but listen to me. In the battlefield, there will be many terrible things to sway your sights and mind. Men charging toward you, the screams of the wounded and dying — perhaps even your own pain and fear running through your blood. But you must maintain _absolute_ clarity in the heat of things. You will not always have compatriots to depend on, and, even then, truly?” He shakes his head. “Truly, you are alone and must depend on your own skills.”

The weighty experience behind his tone settles in your thoughts like tar.

Having served more than his fair share of time in the military, he speaks from first-hand knowledge. Those same eyes that usually glint at the sight of you getting annoyed by his teasing have also witnessed horrors beyond imagining. Perhaps those memories, horrible as they are, require a bit of a playful notion to keep his sanity. To make sense of all the wrongs in the world. The vibrant smile on his lips has you shying away from his gaze.

“Which is why, _madame_ , something as simple as the Havana sun should not keep you from your true potential. But please allow me.”

Before you can voice your question, the shade and coolness of something resting on your head keeps you quiet and has your skin heating up far hotter than the sunlight beating on your back. His very own prized possession, a far-spanning and ridiculously feathered hat, now rests on your head. Heat and sun may be blocked from view, but your look of utter discomfort is not.

He takes a resting squat next to you and tilts his head curiously to peek under the rim to spy your face. “There will be no one as handsome as I at your side in battle to keep you in good spirits and focus, I assure you. But for now, I will shield you from such heated distraction.” He points downrange. “Try again.”

You mentally toss aside the additional brick he lays to the monument of his ego. To a certain point, he’s correct. Aim _this_ bad in the field would mean your end and possibly the ends of those you seek to protect. The Order calls for excellence of mind and body. Not because of tradition or grandstanding, but because of the consequences of failure.

You take care to quickly and accurately reload the musket, lie down and steady your aim once more. Remember your training and you’ll be fine. Just focus and —

Another clip of dirt fires up from the ground after your missed shot.

There’s a low whistle from Julien and a string of unvoiced curses from you as you stand with the gun held in a death grip. The Grand Master had recognized your talents and had been kind enough to offer you lodging within his estate with personal lessons with his finest Templars. A gift like that cannot be repaid with shoddy marksmanship against practice dummies!

“Julien?” You ask, still gripping tightly.

“ _Oui, madame?_ ”

“Could you hand me that musket there?”

He tsks his tongue, but moves to oblige. “Only a poor soldier blames their tools.”

“I’m sure, but I would appreciate trying another weapon. I’ve never missed this much. Ever.” Not to pat yourself on the back too much, but you really haven’t ever been this objectively terrible.

“ _Ne vous en faites pas (Don’t worry.)._ If I may, allow me.”

The rugged individual gently takes the musket from your grasp and hands you the unused one. He reloads your discarded weapon with his usual flair and shoots you a look you can’t quite read. Playful? Troublesome? Perhaps a combination of the two as he takes the loaded gun and steadies himself for a standing shot. Your eyes travel downrange to watch where his shot may connect, but nothing happens.

“… _distracted_ , mercenary?”

And still no answer for several moments before he lowers the musket.

The man’s an expert shot and knows his guns — almost as well as he knows how to press people’s buttons. And in the time he’s spent running jobs around the estate, you’ve been able to see what lies beneath that tiresome yet talented veneer. Every order de Torres has given him, every target placed in his path had been eliminated with little fuss. His dedication may be shifting from coin to cause, but his skills are hardset and formed from a number of lifetimes spent fighting in wars. Eventually, the man’s talent would rise to your own and he would find himself well-seated within the Order.

But, to be completely honest, getting to know him has been like peeling open a piece of fruit to reveal nothing but another layer of rind. He is _exactly_ the same man on the outside as he is on the inside. Proud and unabashed with nothing to hide from those who dare to look. It could be refreshing if he weren’t so luridly vibrant and hardly befitting of a Templar. Somehow, though, he makes it work.

“What do you say to a friendly wager?”

He doesn’t wait for your reply.

“The star pupil of the Templar Grand Master _Laureano José de Torres Ayala a Duadros Castellanos, marqués de Casa Torres_ himself.” He flashes a small smile, no doubt proud of himself for pronouncing such a mouthful. “And myself — a lowly mercenary.”

“If you have a point, now is the time to voice it.” Really, this heat is doing nothing at all for your manners. Still, the fiery gentleman chuckles.

“You are out to make your Grand Master proud, yes? To show him everything you are capable of doing for the Templar Order and more. For so long you have served under him and still the man has you… shooting targets? Doing small jobs most days?” Clearly for all the time you had been observing him, he had also been observing you. He gently flicks up the brim of his hat on your head. “Don’t you think you’re ready for something more… fulfilling?”

You slowly cant your head. “Get on with it before I point this musket at _you_.”

He barks out a laugh, either aware it hasn’t even been loaded yet or because you’ve yet to land a shot. “Yes, of course! Have a round of shooting with me.”

A what?

“If I can impress you, come with me on some of my jobs to get the experience you deserve. Your skills will grow sharper than any blade in due time.”

“If I needed help chasing coin, perhaps. But you have no grounds to be offering any method of improvement.”

He nods sidelong towards the pristinely undamaged targets. “I only see what your shooting displays, _madame_.”

Ah. Yes. …quite.

Rolling your gaze from the dummies back to his inviting stare has you straightening your back in a momentary assessment of this rogue that’s come into the Grand Master’s favor. Tall, showy, but overall talented. Looking to embrace Templar ideology and unerringly loyal. A huff of air leaves your lungs.

“And if I’m not impressed with your own talents?”

He runs his hand through his hair — a somewhat automatic motion to grasp at his hat no doubt. “Then I am more than deserving of the lowly title of mercenary, wouldn’t you say? Call me as you like.”

That smile of his is starting to annoy in the worst way. Infectious in how it tugs at the corners of your lips to threaten a grin of your own. Instead, you lower your chin and use the brim of his hat as a visual blockade.

“If I’m unimpressed, I’m afraid I will have to report my findings to the Grand Master.”

“Such a cruel tongue.”

“Get used to it. Those who ill-fit the Order have no place in its high ranks.”

“And you think a sad mercenary like me has a chance?” He asks, chuckling.

“De Torres sees promise in you, a… less than ideal candidate, but a candidate by his judgment. That is all I need.” You load your weapon and seal your bag of shot. “Keep in mind, though. The Grand Master’s vision is not as sharp as it was in his youth. He knows this and trusts us to trim those who cannot function as necessary.”

He holds his own weapon at the ready with a slightly softer tone of voice. “And what would happen to a Templar who stagnates? One who finds no traction where she once ran freely?”

Another attempt at ruffling your feathers. It’s _almost_ impressive how easily he does it. Like a second nature to him.

“Watch your insinuations, mercenary.”

The shots fired between the two of you have polar opposite results. One target is nailed in the chest, while the other target will live to see more uses as it is still untouched. Had it been _another_ missed shot of yours, you would have reacted less than reasonably. But you lower your weapon curiously.

 It seems it’s the mercenary whose aim is off.

“ _Merde (damn)_ , it seems I am not as clever a shot as I thought.” He draws the musket downward and congratulates you on your victory, voicing his eager anticipation of what nicknames you may come up for him.

“Just like that?”

“A wager is a wager, _madame_ , and I have lost.” A large life-weathered hand rises to pluck the hat you had forgotten was keeping the sun from your eyes. Sunlight which causes you to squint at its return. He doffs his item, shifts it into the place by its edges. “Try to make the story of my humiliation a grand one, yes?”

“You’re being dramatic again, mercenary.”

“How can I not? I’ve been bested by the most talented Templar in Havana.”

“Stop —”

“—singing your praises? Impossible.”

“Mercenary, give me—”

“—some credit, yes! And you are every bit deserving. You may very well rise to take De Torres’ place.”

“ _Julien!_ ”

He pauses, eyes slightly wider than the moment before your raised voice.

Shit. This isn’t a reaction he’s gotten out of you before.

His smile widens.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

“…Julien. Hand me your weapon.” You hold one hand out and hold up the other in a bid for silence since you simply _know_ a gloating reply would come forth. But he stems it — just barely — and hands you the musket. “Thank you.”

“ _De rien. (No need for thanks.)_ ”

“Stay there, if you please.” Your words catch him making his exit mid-stride, and he stops. Turns. But doesn’t close the distance he’s made as you take the musket to the nearest table for disassembly.

Some silence passes as he watches you pry the thing apart with no small effort. There’s no curiosity on his face — he knows what’s coming.

“I understand if you did not realize at first —” You groan in effort at removing a metal piece and then another. “—but I take it from your sudden eagerness to depart that you realize what this is. You should voice your mistake.”

“ _Madame_ , I have already lost. Would you wound me further?”

“Stop the shit flowing from your fucking gob, Julien, or I’ll do it for you.”

He clears his throat. Message received.

“I had not thought it possible until I fired the weapon myself.” He says, words a bit quiet as he approaches. Is that shame? Embarrassment in his voice?

“Yes, and then after? You weren’t going to tell me? Or you didn’t think I would notice?”

“Forgive me for saying so, I mean no slight against your skill, but you had fired the weapon all day — what difference would one last shot have made?” That’s true. And it’s that truth that spares him from another one of your glares. “But how—how did you know?”

“Well, if we’re _both_ being honest…”

“…Yes? What? If we’re both being honest what?”

You shoot him a look.

“I— look, _yes_ , I agree. I’m being honest. I may withhold the truth, but I am no liar, _madame._ ”

You chuckle softly and remove some of the last components of the weapon to reveal its warped and shoddily crafted breech housing. On the outside it looks fine, but when taken apart? It’s a fake. A badly made one. And probably not the only of its kind the arms dealer has brought in. “Since we’re being honest, I was able to tell because as good as you think your poker face is — well, it _isn’t._ ”

The look on his face is one that almost looks as though he’d preferred the musket be aimed at him instead of your harsh words.

“Do you know how many of these you brought in?” You ask.

He clears his throat. “ _Ideally_ , that is the only one. But realistically, I cannot be sure. I checked those weapons myself, but if one was able to slip past...” He mutters something under his breath. Something delightfully foul and French.

“Ah, well. As long as you weren’t planning on hiding this from the Grand Master?”

“ _Madame,_ I—”

“Because if there’s something you should know about De Torres, Julien, it’s that he is a man who appreciates full and complete honesty.”

The gravity of his mistake is not a light one. Poor weapons in the hands of those who require excellence is a good way to get someone killed — himself included. He swallows and rests his hands on his hips, looking over the ground and my, how the gears in his head must be turning to pull him out of this one.

After a few more moments of his distress you roll your eyes and roll your tongue along the inside of your cheek. “Julien.”

No response. You clear your throat and he looks up.

The motion catches you off-guard. The sudden rise of the brim of his hat and the _look_ on his face. A man caught in the depths of something that would — had he not had a witness — easily be determined as treachery. Or worse, incompetence. A man who has made a mistake. A man who wants to right a wrong.

The sight tugs at a piece of your chest. Gently, at first. But it feels heavier with each syllable that leaves you. Each bit of your speech builds up his confidence, his ego. Brick by brick stacking on each other until he is whole.

“Julien, I will go with you to the Grand Master and tell him what I have seen.” You continue your speech despite his open mouth. “And, despite whatever his initial reaction may be, I will redirect that anger onto someone more deserving — namely the fool who’s swindled you.”

“You would do that? For me?”

“I’m doing it for the Order. We still need weapons and the Grand Master isn’t going to be pleased if we’ve exchanged funds for pitiful tools. A mission to recoup lost coin only makes sense. And perhaps with some finessing we’ll remove one less parasite from the world.”

The shiny disassembled pieces of of the gun lie arranged on the table and Julien picks up the lock of it, rolling the mechanism between thumb and forefinger. “I see why the Grand Master likes you so.”

The rise of your brow brings on more of his meaning.

“This is our first time speaking at such length for reasons I can only surmise, and now you are here willing to turn my mistake into my fortune.”

“I do not do this for your benefi—”

“Yes, you say that, but it truly is to our mutual gain. You could allow me to suffer the Grand Master’s wrath and I would never be made a Templar — you would never have to see me again. Instead, this gives you an opportunity to gain footing and show your tendencies for quick thinking and leadership. The attempt to convince the Grand Master is no doubt a small test for yourself.” He puts down the lock and picks up the trigger guard. “You know it and he will, too.”

 Well. Perhaps you’ve been giving the mercenary too little credit. When he isn’t out to tease, his analytical prowess is remarkable. Still, though.

“And?” You ask, doing your best to sound less than impressed.

“And I think the gesture is incredibly kind.” He smiles wide. “Generosity in a Templar is a too-rare thing. Be sure not to lose that quality, and be equally sure it does not lead to your downfall.”

The lump forming in your throat refuses to dissipate after the first and second swallow. You clear your throat and force it away with the third. “I believe you have some work to do, Julien. You’ll need to round up the weapons and determine the fakes from the genuine ones we have.”

“Is that an order?”

You meet his gaze and the look he holds is a licentious one, as if daring you to give in to his playful game of order-barking Templar and mercenary.

“The noose gets tighter around _your_ neck with every second you waste, not mine.”

And that sets him on his way without a second glance. He does, however, pocket the trigger guard.

* * *

De Torres, as expected, is less than pleased with your news and questions why exactly the person responsible is not there to deliver the message himself. Frankly, you assumed Julien would be a bit meek in his meeting with the Grand Master. The mercenary is out to do his best and please the Templars to gain his seat — you knew the feeling all too well when you were trying to get your own induction ceremony.

But now, there’s more at stake than petty wants and needs.

“I was under the impression Julien was not your favorite.” He states behind the length of his desk.

“He isn’t.”

“And you still defend him?”

“I think him deserving of camaraderie alongside discipline for his errors. But time necessitates other actions first.”

He regards you with an intense stare and says nothing.

“Grand Master?”

“Very well. Take what you need and return to me within a week.” He writes out a note, stamps it closed with his seal, and hands it to you. “I hope your faith in him is not misguided.”

He and you both, honestly. You take the paper gently and give a respectful nod. “I put my faith in _your_ faith of him, Grand Master, and I will ensure he is not undeserving.”

That puts a smile on the old man’s face and he bids you away with a wave.

* * *

Within the hour, Julien had rounded up all the weapons from his latest shipment, and by nightfall the two of you were aboard a vessel headed to your destination: another port city a day or two’s travel away where Julien had met with his supplier. Had you a more solid sense of the man, you probably would not have been stunned at the change of his demeanor aboard the ship. Still playful and teasing, but with traces of deadly seriousness you had not yet seen. The powerful mind behind his equally powerful body was calculating, planning.

Whoever his supplier was would probably not be alive much longer.

And, true to your suspicions, three days later the supplier suffered a horrible gutshot — four of them to be exact before bleeding to death. A shot to the head would have sufficed, but Julien seemed to have other plans. Plans for a painfully slow and guaranteed death so that the man — and those who served him — would know what becomes of those who test the Order’s patience.

It was a bloody, but altogether wildly successful mission.

* * *

The Grand Master seemed pleased with your return. After all, the two of you brought back four times the amount of money that had been lost since a dead man has no need for wealth. There’s a modest sum awarded to you both with the promise of increased rank and an induction for the soon-to-be ex-mercenary. And after receiving the Grand Master’s thanks, you are both dismissed to go about your duties.

Julien wastes no time as you both make your way through the estate.

“ _Madame._ ”

“What is it, mercenary?” You catch yourself with a small laugh. “I can’t call you that for much longer, can I?”

He chuckles and he nods. “I cannot thank you enough for the opportunity you gave to me. I do not speak these words lightly when I say I am in your debt.”

Debt? Please, the entire goal of the operation was to get what _you_ wanted to begin with. Him being able to prove his prowess and be welcomed into the Order was simply an unintended side effect. “Spare me, Julien. I’m back on land and in no mood for you to try to sweep me off my feet.”

“Then a drink, perhaps?” He asks, following you through the hall until you stop and face him. Blinking your unspoken question only has him removing his hat to place to his chest.

A modest and pleading Julien is _not_ a sight often seen, but here he is in the plain sight of servants asking you to join him for lord knows what. They’ll be gossiping about that for sure.

“Listen, Julien, I—”

“— don’t know what you are missing.” The words are spoken so sultrily, so matter-of-factly as he raises the hat back to his head with his eyes just hidden by the brim. “My eyes may have failed me in finding the best weapons, but my tongue is in working order. My tastes are exquisite and my selection is grand. You will not be disappointed.”

Is this…? No, it can’t be his attempt at subtlety. Before you can fully process how to respond, he raises his head and locks eyes with you. A piercing blue gaze accented by a lopsided smirk that pulls something in your chest. A dark and frightful something that questions whether you’ve been the one pulling the strings this whole time.

“I will be in my quarters whatever your decision.”

And he leaves, walking past you in a sauntering pace.

It’s a bad idea. Terrible, really. Just the worst. And still you find yourself outside his door just after sundown. The estate grounds are quiet and most of the servants have retired to their quarters for guards to take up their positions instead. The door before you stands no more imposing than any other but your clenched hand, poised to knock, refuses to make contact.

“Are you trying a new Templar trade? Willing objects to move with nothing but your mind?”

Turning suddenly has you greeting the taller mercenary face-to-chest. Rather, face-to-tray.

“I thought I may be enjoying an evening alone and picked some things up from the kitchen, but what a pleasant surprise it is to see that I will have company.” He nods toward the door as his hands are occupied by the food he carries — some empanadas, sandwiches, and other finger foods piled high on a plate he holds with both hands. Not exactly a small man, but had he _really_ planned on eating all of that himself? He notes your hesitation and tilts his hatted head. “Unless you do not wish to stay?”

Trapped between him, the door, and the delicious smell of food reminding you that you haven’t eaten since early this morning coaxes you to hold the door open for him and have your first glance about his quarters. Modest enough for a hired hand. Surely, he’ll receive an upgraded living space once he accepts his rites. “You mentioned a selection of drinks?”

“Always to the point of things, _madame_. Make yourself comfortable. I do not want you to have to lift a finger.”

There’s a table perched by a shuttered window where he places the food and welcomes you to sit. A few short strides later and he’s clinking at some bottles and glasses as you sit and try not to look too ravenous. Mercenary or not, it’s impolite to eat before everyone is seated.

“Do you have any preference? Or shall I dazzle you with my finest?” He asks over his shoulder.

“As long as it is strong.” You reply absentmindedly staring over the cape that drapes from his opposite shoulder. Even now you still have no idea why he wears that thing.

“Of course! We are victorious and deserve nothing less.”

It’s exactly two sandwiches (four for him) and three glasses (five for him) of what truly is an _excellent_ wine later that you realize that you were spending much longer in his company than planned. In that time he had graced you with all manner of pleasantries. Poured your drinks, offered you the selection of anything you may want to savor, and complimented your abilities in the field endlessly. That last compliment — the one that made you giggle much louder and airier than usual — is what signals to you that you may be getting just _slightly_ tipsy.

Time to go.

The nearby shutter opens at your tugging and you note how dark it’s gotten. “My the hour is growing late, Julien. I should be on my way.”

“So soon?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. There’s so much to prepare for now that you will be joining us.”

He eases back in his seat and rests his elbow on the table to support his fist against his cheek. “Will I be taken in under your tutelage? A fledgling Templar needs a capable mentor.”

“I don’t think — that’s not really a call for me to make, sir.”

“Then may I request it?” His free hand swirls the contents of his drink and he stares intently for your reaction. Were it not for the alcohol settling in your blood and mind you could have faked your way out, but he reads your shock like an illuminated book. “Ah, forgive me. I am still in your debt and I am already making further requests.”

Clearing your throat does nothing to wash away the sound and steadily rising heat in his words, but it does afford you a second to think. “The Grand Master is always open to reasonable requests, Julien. You know that.”

“Yes, but what about _you?_ ”

“I’m sorry?”

“Would you be opposed to teaching me? I would not want to impose…”

Goodness, he’s just toying with you now isn’t he. Going back and forth between being insistent and kind and using every pleasurable timbre of his voice to sway you in your slightly more pliant state. It’s not as though you are unwilling to teach him — it’s just that admitting it would make him insufferably smug. To gain the favor of the Grand Master _and_ his star pupil? He’d never let you live it down.

Still, truths slip easier from your lips than lies for the moment.

“I would not be opposed to having you as a student, Julien. Truth be told, I do not think you need me. You’re quite talented!”

“Nonsense. I need you very much, and there are still a multitude of talents I have yet  to show you!.”

 _That_ causes you to sputter on your drink, holding a hand up to your mouth to cough your airway clear. A reaction that he adores with a gentle bite to his lower lip. Yes, still the same man even with alcohol in his system. Judging from his size, though, he’s probably barely affected.

“I— well, this was lovely, Julien. I think I’ll retire now.” The haste in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed. Neither does the slight wobble of dizziness from standing suddenly after being seated and drinking for so long. “Thank you. I had a lovely evening. And congratulations again. You’ll make a fine Templar.”

Surprisingly, he walks alongside you. “Your kindness knows no bounds, _madame_. Allow me to escort you to your quarters.”

“That’s not necessary Julien, I can—” The warmth of his hand encircling yours on the handle cuts your breath short. Calloused and heated and gentle against your skin sending thrills along your spine. But it’s nothing compared to the feel of the rest of him pressing against your back with gentle insistence. “What ar… are you doing, Julien?”

“Merely helping you with the door, _madame_. Should I stop? The handle is a bit tricky, I’m afraid. It requires a soft touch.” Those fingers glide against your knuckles and apply a gradual pressure that’s mirrored with your free hand tightening. “Damnedest thing, really. Sometimes… hah, sometimes it takes me all night to get it open.”

Pressure applied, the catch of the knob releases and the door pulls toward you just slightly. His warm, low laugh tickles your eardrums.

“Ah, your talents show themselves again. What impressive hands you have, _madame_. I look forward to one day seeing how they perform.”

“You’ve already seen how they perform.” You correct him. Just a few days ago the both of you had worked to infiltrate a swindler’s base and bring his life to a premature end.

“Yes, but I have a theory that they are capable of much gentler ministrations.” He adds and the implication is palpable.

Swallowing your held breath, you turn to face him — your hand off the handle but his hand still holding the door slightly ajar. And he’s staring down at your form trapped against him. Perhaps not so much _trapped_ , but definitely suspended between exiting and remaining. Mentally, you steady youself. “Are you attempting to seduce a Templar, mercenary?”

“That sounds like a very foolish mistake to make.”

_“It is.”_

“What a shame, then. My mother always said I was smart, but none too wise.”

And slowly, he removes his hat with his free hand, tossing it aside to land in his abandoned chair before setting his sights back on you. Curious and wanting. Eyes looking so _very_ close to becoming unrestrained, but his expression holds as though he has all the time in the world to stay with you here, just like this. He smiles, huffing out a soft breath of appreciation and steps closer to gauge your body language. It’s tense — you are definitely tense and without the aid of alcohol you very well may have already bolted, but something keeps you in place.

A bothersome curiosity.

For how his lips might feel against places unexplored. Of what exactly his hands may be capable of behind closed doors. And — perhaps most embarrassingly — to see exactly what lays beneath his showy attire.

Those wily eyes catch a glimpse of your wandering gaze and he guides your free hand to the exposed portion of his chest. Smooth and muscled flesh that vibrates under his chuckle when he sees your eyes widen.

“ _Tellement mignon…(So lovely…)_ ” He says in that songbird tone of his when he slips into his native tongue. Before you can ask him what he’s said, he offers you a sample of what his gifted mouth can do while not speaking. A slow and gentle kiss that focuses more on sensations than anything else. The texture of your lips on his, the smell of your mingled breaths, and the taste that lingers on each others tongues when the hunger behind the kiss begins to rise.

He breaks it off earlier than you would like and you suck in a breath.

“Should I… should I stop now, _ma grincheuse_ _? (my grumpy one)”_ He gently taps your nose to bring you back into focus. “I would hate to overstep any boundaries.”

A needy tug at his shirt is the only answer he receives. And it is one he wholly welcomes as he presses you against the door that clicks solidly shut. The graces of his lips are on yours to expose your soft gasps with undertones of his chuckles. He knows all too well the boundaries he’s so teasingly sidestepped to draw closer and closer to his goal. The least he could do now is finish.

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?” You fumble a hand behind you to lock the door and return your touch to his exposed chest and relish the warmth there. He grins at his delight when you begin to feverishly work at the many belts at his waist, letting them clatter to the ground one after the other.

“ _Oui, madame._ Another thing my mother was too fond of telling me.” He strokes some hair from your face and holds his pants up with his free hand as you undo the last sash that holds his pants high.

Unsurprising, but that’s enough of hearing about the man’s family. And, frankly, that’s enough of his feigned modesty. You wrap your arms about his neck to bring him in for another wine-laced kiss and goodness that purr of his is delightful. A perfect moment that will be his undoing.

A soft jump later gives Julien exactly two options. He may either act quickly and wrap his arms under your rear to support your legs newly-tangled around his waist. Or he can allow you to fall. Ever the gentleman, he correctly decides on the former and wastes no time in fondling your ass as he holds you against him. The intended side effect of his pants falling free is nice, but the unintended crash of your mouths as you jumped is less so.

Even then, he snickers. “ _Merde alors! (Damn!)_ Behaving so inappropriately for a Templar… What has gotten into you, madame?”

“Nothing yet,” you squirm in his grip. “For your sake, it better not stay that way.”

 _“Certainement pas. (Absolutely not.)”_ Those discarded pants do not slow him as he steps from them and carries you to his bed. Each step grinds your core against him deliciously until he sets you to sit on the plush surface with a huff of regret. “ _Quelle fille intelligente. (What a clever girl.)_ ”

You tilt your head. Sexy as his voice is, it doesn’t help that you can’t speak much French beyond very limited phrases.

“Ah, am I confusing you? _Désolé. (Sorry.)_ ”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Mm?”

“ _Talking_ ”

The sound of his voice is pleasant — it always has been. But at the moment you would much prefer his mouth partaking in other activities. He smirks a little and your stomach turns. You know that look. An idea is forming in his head.

“I was merely thinking of what a capable woman you are. And the thought, it… how do you say — _tu m’excites. (— you turn me on.)_ ”

Great. More French. You groan aloud and close your eyes. “Julien, please. I know you like to tease, but I _cannot_ underst—”

That precise moment he will remove all confusion and miscommunication with a soft touch guiding your hand from the bed to the tented front of his undergarments. Calm amusement is on his face when your eyes shoot open in surprise and he repeats himself in a slow, aroused tone.

_“Tu m’excites, madame.”_

“Oh…” You say with clarity forming fresh lust in your mind. He kisses tenderly at your temple and forehead and his hand begins to untie the strings at the front of your shirt. There’s mutterings of something else from his lips — more French words to send a tickle down your spine. The man could be talking about the injustices of taxation without representation for all you care. Either way, he everything from his lips is damned sexy.

_“Madame.”_

“Mmn?”

“Such a clever, curious creature. You say you want me to stop speaking yet when I continue you…” He shudders out a groan and grinds his hips into your touch. “…you fondle me so deliciously.”

The subconscious motions of your hands continue a bit more consciously now. Your soft but firm strokes cause his length to throb steadily in your hand, leaking excitement that seeps into the fabric of his undergarments. It’s still concealed by fabric, but it feels… He kisses your thoughts away and disconnects from you to finish removing his clothes. First his shoes then his serape, then his billowing shirt, and at long _last_ he takes off the fabric that keeps you from seeing him fully naked.

 _“Incroyable… (Incredible…)”_ The word leaves your lips untainted by embarrassment or mixed signals. He’s handsome enough with clothes on, but now that you have seen what lies beneath, you have the suspicion that future missions with him may pull less-than-appropriate desires to light.

“You compliment me so, _madame_. Already you are so tempting, but that _praise…_ I fear it does something frightful to me.”

“That so?” You ask as he pulls your shirt from over your head and works at the ties of your pants.

“ _Mon Dieu, oui._ You are powerful in so many ways.” The first kiss lands on the valley of your breasts, then lower to your stomach as his hands pull your pants and undergarments away to your knees. “To serve under the Order, under _you_ , it is a pleasure.”

You run a hand fondly through his hair, tugging him closer to your body between kisses that litter to your core.

“But tonight, _madame_ , I think we will be equals, yes?”

“Of course, Julien.” You say through a lighthearted chuckle that has him grinning against your skin. And all too suddenly his hands grip your shoulders and shove you back to make you lie flat. He rises to his feet with your legs still tangled in your pants and removes them from one leg then the other. All the while staring at you with a heated want.

_“As-tu faim? Je ai préparé un dessert spécial pour toi. (Are you hungry? I’ve prepared a special dessert for you.)”_

What question was on your lips evaporates when he joins you on the bed in a predatory crawl until the breadth of his shoulders clouds your vision. Yet higher still he climbs until he kneels at your side. His thick fingers roll themselves in your hair and bring you close to his cock and the implication is clear.

Thank goodness the man isn’t a selfish lover. The instant you wrap your hand around his dick, he trails his free hand between your legs to tease at your entrance. It’s a light touch, exploring your sensitivity until he can gauge your highest comfort. Slow swirls on your clit and folds mirror the motions of your tongue on him as you take him into your mouth.

It’s a slow game — a test of sorts to see if the two of you are equally matched. Gradually, heat builds. He can barely stand the look of your lips when you pull free of his cock with soft wet sounds. Lips full with your tongue glossing over them before diving in for more of his taste. And your thighs find difficulty keeping from thrusting into his hand when he slicks you over and inserts a first and second finger to give you mounting pleasure.

For the both of you, it’s good. But it’s not good enough. To be the first to admit that, though, is to admit defeat.

And of course a man like him is not ready for that. A man like him will use whatever tactics he has at his disposal, and since you had already so kindly revealed a weakness…

“ _Tu es si belle. (You’re so beautiful.)_ ”

He says in a throaty whisper as he rolls his hips toward you for more blissful contact with your sucking mouth. The dual assault on your pussy and ears is a low play, but he continues to caress your ears in his native tongue, feeling you grow wetter with every passing sentence.

“ _J’ai envie de toi. (I want you.)_ ”

Your breath catches in your throat and you groan your displeasure. He’s _cheating_ and he knows it, but he relishes your glare and fingers your pussy at a sweeter pace.

“ _Plus fort? (Harder?)_ ”

The inflection seems to be a question that he knows you cannot answer. His wrist shifting is the only warning you get as he angles his fingers deeper and plunges his fingers in quick succession, thumb roving your clit to pull a high-pitched whine from your occupied lips. Deeper and harder and _faster_ he goes until you pull his member free and half-gasp half-groan.

“Nnggh— that’s not fair!” The spoken protest is broken up with the slick sounds of him thrusting his expert fingers faster until your voice and objections crumble. Fair or not, he’s going to pull an orgasm from you no matter how deep you sink your fingers into his thigh.

His voice rings out above the sounds of pleasure though. “ _Suces moi la bite, madame. (Suck my cock.)_ ”

You miss the foreign command and his thrusting stops. Fingers in your hair tilt your head up as you close your thighs around his hand and move against him for more. For anything to bring you closer to where you just were.

But he doesn’t. He caresses your head and speaks the command again.

_“Suces. Moi. La bite. Madame.”_

“Julien, you know I don’t—” A firm grip in your hair guides you closer to his throbbing, dripping length. With a quick glance up you can see the expectant look on his face. He _really_ wants to do this?

Very well.

Eyes still locked with his, you take him in your hand and roll over to your side for easy access, legs parted and mouth open to take him halfway inside. He sighs contentedly, mutters a curse and bites his lip as he watches and resumes a slow pace with his fingers inside you. And the dance starts again. He picks up tempo and you do as well, both of you determined to not be the first to come undone.

It takes a minute to find his weak points, but you test them thoroughly. It’s variety that makes him shudder. Slow and deep licks. Alternating between gentle kisses and firm presses of your teeth. But it’s when you suckle at the head of his cock and suddenly take him deep in your mouth that he wavers his grip and his eyes roll closed. Even the frenzied thrusts of his fingers suffer distraction.

His error doesn’t go unnoticed and when his eyes snap open watching you bob your head with such a look in your eyes — calm and determined and capable of such sexual destruction. Seeing the mercenary squirm under your touch and sing your praises has an opposite effect, however.

 _“Mon dieu,_ _c’—c’est bon_ _._ _”_

As he’s losing himself to your deft mouth, tension rises in your core. Seeing him moaning under you, sputtering out lilting praises is a powerful aphrodisiac. You steal glances of him between rises for air and every time he’s locked in such a blissful expression. Mouth slightly ajar when you release him, breathing so heavily. Shoulder jostling slightly as his hand keeps you wet and so ready for him.

Too ready.

You swallow your pride and exhale lust.

“Julien?”

_“Oui, madame?”_

“… _s’il te plait_ …”

His eyes light up and his hand slows. Every fiber of his body is focused entirely on you and the sweet release of his beloved language from your lips.

 _“Oui?”_ He asks again, lower and softer.

It’s rusty. Badly pronounced. A terrible something picked up in a bar in your youth in the height of past wars. But you know what it means, having had so many drunken soldiers spewing it your way.

_“…baise moi, s'il te plait.”_

There is no grand fanfare of his victory. You have conceded defeat in favor of more pleasurable attention and the man before you is utterly shocked.

He swallows, blinks a moment, and speaks. “Say that again, _madame_. Such a beautiful sound from you.”

Ever the sweettalker is he, but you acquiesce with alcohol and base need getting the better of your sensibilities. “Julien, _baise moi._ ”

He kisses at your cheek, bidding you to lie on your back. “ _Oui, avec plaisir. (Yes, with pleasure.)_ ”

Lying under him grants you a new sort of view. He’s always been taller, larger, more… outright powerful. And by the lord’s good graces you can truly _feel_ it now. What a tender teasing heart he has underneath it all. You pull him in for a kiss. His slick-covered hand coats himself and he eases his length inside. Hot, thick, and throbbing.

A soft bite to your lips has you mewling in protest.

“Eyes on me, _madame_. I want to see what I do to you.”

That’s an order you can finally understand. It must be an important one. _“Oui, avec plaisir.”_ You parrot back.

And he laughs. Heartily. A solid laugh from his chest that reverberates through his body that’s so pleasantly pressed against yours. He presses his forehead against yours and those sky-hued eyes carry the look of a man ready to tear you apart in the best way.

“Sing for me, _madame_.”

And he thrusts, a fluid push of his hips that sinks the full length of his cock inside. Pulsing its need inside you until you’re breathless and he pulls back and does it _again_. A bit harder and a lot faster.

For a moment, your eyes clench and you wrench them open. Of course he’s staring back. Of course there’s a smile on his lips. You tangle one arm around his neck and the other in the bedsheets, pull your thighs up to his hips and nodding gently.

One slow thrust. Two fast ones. A fourth deep push that has him grinding his pelvis against yours to fill you to your deepest depths and send your nails grazing across his back. Keeping yourself quiet is a challenge like no other. He’s memorized all those sweet angles his fingers discovered before, and he makes full use of his findings with each thrust.

_“Une si belle chanson… Plus fort… Plus… (A beautiful song... Louder… More…)”_

Every word is punctuated by the grip of his hands on your hips and kisses fluttering over your body. The man is a compassionate lover and knows how to deliver, and there is _such_ affection behind his kisses and his tone.

His thoughts may have been preoccupied wishing for this night for some time.

It may not be his intention, but soon the pleasure between your legs mounts into something unstoppable and you close your eyes to will some of it away. With enough focus you may be able to last a bit longer, but he slows the roll of his hips to a complete stop and the silent reminder is exactly what you don’t want.

You groan and clench your walls around him. He doesn’t move again until your eyes open and rest on him. The stage of his bedroom is set and he does not intend to perform alone. And, my, does he persuade you to sing. Louder and higher until he kisses you silent. Deep, probing tongue mingling in your breath to drink in your lust and aftertaste of wine.

He groans when he comes up for air, still thudding his hips heavily into you. “Take care not to arouse the suspicion of the guards, _madame._ ” You shake your head, uncaring, and wrap your free arm around his back to pull him closer. It’s so _good_ , such a blissful feeling of pulsing delight.

Giving a damn about who hears is not a priority. Not when you’re so close.

That charming tongue darts out to wet his lips and he chuckles his understanding. Once more he presses his lips to yours to keep you quiet and pulls your lower half close to see you both to a proper finish.

It’s a loud one despite his best efforts. One full of bites and groans and pulling hands. And despite _your_ best attempt, your eyes close under the weight of overwhelming sensation. He doesn’t seem to mind as long as he can witness your rise and descent; as long as he can _feel_ what he’s doing to you. And, as expected, quiet uncertainty takes the place of dispelled lust.

 _You’ve just fucked your soon-to-be student._ Jesus Christ, you just fucked your student.

Or rather, your soon-to-be student has just fucked you in the most delicious way and is basking in pleasured afterglow at your side with his cock limp against his thigh. And it’s a sight that almost has you wanting to stay. He looks so… so _content_. Normally, he has a self-pleased air about him, but this is so genuine.

He surprises you with an arm at your waist, pulling you in like a messy-haired lion. With that contended rumble of a purr in his chest, it’s unclear if he isn’t potentially part-lion. He rubs his cheek against your scalp, inhaling and sighing deep. “Mmmn. _Tu es mon fantasme devenu réalité. (You are my fantasy come true.)”_

What you wouldn’t give for a translation, but you can guess it’s a happy sentiment. Doesn’t seem to be kicking you out or asking for more food, so… yes. Probably happy.

“Are you worried?” He asks with a sleep-laced voice.

“A little,” you admit. More than a little. It’s absolutely terrifying what could happen to either of you should the Grand Master find out and oh _god fucking damn it_ why were you moaning so loudly?

He nods, kisses your crown, and pulls a folded blanket from the foot of the bed. “We may worry on it in the morning if you like.”

Easy for him to say. There are no early morning preparations waiting for him and damn it all you do not want to make them while hung over. “Mmn.”

“I see,” he says and the words almost stun you with hopes of no misunderstandings. The bed dips under his weight as he leaves and his warmth goes with him. _“Un moment.”_

He fumbles in the low light of the room, ruffling with something soft and then something clinking of metal. “Julien?”

“Just getting your clothes ready, _madame_.” He returns to bed and tickles your cheek with the fuzz of his beard as he tucks you against him and you both settle in. “Let what is coming wait until morning.”

It takes some time for him to fall asleep and even longer for you to find rest. The first chirp of morning songbirds has you wide awake though, and you slip from Julien’s warm embrace. Kind of him to arrange your clothes — makes it all the easier to get dressed and _oh dear lord_ you’re going to get a bath as soon as you leave this room.

Reaching for your shirt though, you feel something unusual. Something that isn’t yours. It’s a small thing. A package? Small enough to fit in your palm, wrapped in parchment and twine. This certainly wasn’t with your things before…

After a quick glance at Julien’s sleeping body, you untie it. It’s a note doubling as wrapping paper and a message. It’s in French. _Of fucking course it is._ But rolling your eyes doesn’t further your understanding so you examine the item inside it, holding it up to the dim light leaking through the shutters.

A ring. Solid with a fine show of filigree circling the entire band. That’s… unsettling. Student or not, you have no intention of romance with Julien and he—

Just a moment.

You look closer, walking closer to the shudder and prying it open to get a better look. Rolling it between forefinger and thumb. This is definitely familiar…

“It is the trigger from your beloved musket, _madame._ ” He smiles at your startled turn and gasp, even laughs aloud when you almost drop the ring. “I had hoped you would not steal away in the night and I suppose you have not, but allow me to explain.”

He rolls over in bed and rises, nude and just as sexy as the night before.

“This is no declaration of love or want of courtship, _madame_. I mean that as no insult.” He ruffles with some of his clothing before he walks toward you. “Our recent _adventure_ served to remind me that I was not as cautious as I should be. In my haste to prove myself to the Order, I did exactly the opposite. But you helped me correct that. Thank you.”

He takes the ring from your palm, slipping it over your index finger and it fits surprisingly well. Damn this man is more observant than you had given him credit for. “You are welcome, Julien. But I don’t… what’s this message?” You ask, paper still in hand.

“It says _‘un rappel à faire attention.’_ A reminder to pay attention, _madame._ ” Nude as he is, he holds you in his arms, kissing your head before tilting your chin up for an intimate meeting of mouths. “I look forward to what you may teach me, but I would like you to have a reminder of the first lesson you taught me.”

Words flip uselessly on your tongue in a struggle to find the right words — the right _anything_ to express yourself. Instead, he warmly smiles at you. A smile that brightens the room far more than the sun spilling in through the window. “It is a bit chilled this morning — I hope you do not mind.”

“Mind? Mind what?”

He clears his throat, glances down and back up at you. At first you assumed it was some lewd joke about his penis, but upon looking you find the brilliant red hue of his serape staring back. It’s a short walk back to your quarters and even if it _is_ a bit cold this morning, you would probably fine.

But the gesture alone seals anything you could say against the idea. He walks you to the door and like the night prior, he wraps his hand around yours upon the door handle. Presses himself into you from behind with the telltale stirring of his loins at your backside. He’ll miss you, it seems, and wants a last embrace. A last private memory of a night on equal footing before returning to business as usual.

There’s a soft noise of a kiss at the back of your head. He pulls the door open.

“Until our next meeting, mentor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A while ago I mentioned to someone I'd never do an Arno fic because my French is terrible. (It still is.) But here we are with another Frenchman. A Templar of all things, too!
> 
> After this, HTBAT will be taking a little break because I think I've finally gotten the smut out of my system. Writing focus will continue on [Pieces of Something](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6166906/chapters/14129503), and as always thanks a lot for reading!


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